If Music Be The Food Of Love
by Gevaisa
Summary: Leroux Kay!Erik. Post book.  The cook at the Grey Goose Inn has a terribly deformed 3 year old son and a lot of secrets.  Erik investigates.
1. Pastoral Interlude

**If Music Be The Food Of Love**

A/N: SK/GL! Erik, over four years after Susan Kay's book, only he's somewhat younger and not about to disintegrate.

Christine is pale blonde. I am imagining her as played by Gwyneth Paltrow.

Anne, an OC, and **yes, an OW**, is a darker blonde. I am imagining her as played by Laetitia Casta, only 10-20 pounds heavier. She is a country woman; her sections are written as she would put things. She is not stupid— she was just not very well educated. She became an unwed mother at the age of 16, and is now 20. If you want to label her a Mary-Sue, you need not bother to tell me so.

Don't own Erik Sr., Darius, Nadir Khan, Marie Perrault, Madeleine, Christine, or Raoul, and I especially don't own Ayesha, because nobody can own a cat, not even a fictional one. If I use or mention any other characters from SK or GL, I disclaim ownership of them also.

I do own Anne, Erik Jr, Rosalie, Claude, Amelié, Sophie, Minna, the Hussenot family, and the entire Norbert clan (Anne's family) of lace-makers from Alençon. They are loosely based on my late grandmother's family. She was one of _eleven_ children.

PG-13 for safety. If things get heated up above that, I'll warn you.

Some material may be inappropriate for vegetarians and dieters. Any recipes or cooking tips given will be real and accurate.

* * *

"**_If music be the food of love, play on;_**

_**Give me excess of it, that surfeiting,**_

**_The appetite may sicken, and so die—"_**

Twelfth Night, William Shakespeare.

_They say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, which just goes to show they're as confused about anatomy as they gen'rally are about everything else, unless they're talking about instructions on how to stab him, in which case a better way is up and under the ribcage._

_Anyway, we do not live in a perfect world and it is foresighted and useful for a young woman to become proficient at those arts which will keep a weak-willed man from straying. Learning to cook is also useful…._

Nanny Ogg's Cookbook, Gytha Ogg, (through Terry Pratchett)

**Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms.**

Sherlock Holmes, _The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter_, (through A. Conan Doyle)

* * *

**Anne:**

Minna gasped, put down the tin of cake flour, and tugged at my elbow. It is not right to call her a half-wit, for although she is not bright, and cannot speak, nor read and write, she understands me right well and I have no better kitchen maid. She pointed to the back of the shelf, where a spinner big as a hazelnut crouched in terror.

"Oh?" I said. "Well, he don't belong in here." I swept my handful of parsley into the stock pot, got a drinking glass, which I upended over the poor lost thing, and slid a bit of pasteboard under. It beat at the glass with four of its eight legs.

"Do not fret, now." I told it, though it could not know nor care what I said, and said "Dearheart?" to my son, who was weaving a lattice crust over the last of the cherry tarts with his clever hands.

"Yes, Mam?" he piped up.

I set the glass with the spider down in front of him. "When you're finished with the tart, would you take him out and let him go by the stables, where he'll have lots of flies to eat?"

"Ooo!" My boy is in love with every living thing in all the world. "Can I keep him, Mam? I'd catch him flies to eat."

"No. Catching flies is good work, but it's his work, not yours. And—" for I well know that without a task or a purpose given him, I will not see my son again before nightfall, nor the glass again ever, "you can come back by way of the springhouse and bring me a glass of fresh cold water."

"Yes, Mam." He finished the weaving and pinched the edges of pastry together. I gave him a buss on the cheek, and he smiled and went out into the sunny afternoon.

"You won't get your water for half-an-hour." predicted my brother Claude. He took the rolls out of the bake-oven, and slid the tarts in. "He'll have to visit every nag in the place, meet the new guests' horses, bid goodbye to the departing ones, climb up into the hay loft to see if Miao's kits have opened their eyes, come down by way of the mulberry tree, build a dam across the stream, and look under every rock, along the way." His voice broke halfway through his speech, and he flushed. Claude is thirteen, and feels it something awful.

"True—but I'll get my glass of water." I took Sophie a bowl of beans for snapping.

"Ah—thank'ee" she said. Sophie is near eighty now, and while the rest of her is not strong anymore, her hands still are good.

She sits by the stove in cold weather, by the door in hot, and pits cherries, snaps beans, and hulls strawberries for me, and other suchlike small work. She sat by my son's cradle, rocked it endless hours, and talked to him, told him stories, all the first year we were here at the inn, so I could go about my work. I had never a fear that she'd put a pillow over his face. For that, I shall clothe, feed and house her until she dies, and see her buried proper when that time comes.

Erik burst back into the kitchen, with a drippy full glass in his hand. "Mam, there's a new cat in the garden, and she's so thin!"

"Happens the stock won't miss a few scraps of beef." I smiled at him. "Mind you, mince it fine, now."

He got a paring knife from the rack, and ladled up some bits to chop. There are not many mothers as would trust a child not yet four with a paring knife, but there are not many children like mine. He would not hurt himself. As he cut up the meat, he told me how friendly the new cat was—cats can tell a soft touch a mile off—, and added, "She has blue eyes, and they go like this." He crossed his eyes, which is a thing he ought not do.

My mother would have said, _Don't do that, your face'll freeze that way_, but that is not a thing I will _ever_ say to my son. "Blue's a lovely color for eyes." His eyes and mine are blue. "What do she look like, else?" A white cat with blue eyes is stone deaf, like as not, and once we had a deaf kitten. He did not hear a coach coming in the carriage way, one day, and my Erik cried himself sick over that crushed scrap of fur. I did not need that happening again.

"She's got a dirty face. And paws and ears and tail-tip. The rest of her is the color of—whole wheat flour."

"She need a bath, then?" May I be spared washing a cat, I prayed.

"No-she's washing her own face." He filled a chipped dish with the meat and put the knife in the sink like a good lad.

"Well, you may feed her and play with her, but since you're out in the garden, see that you weed the lettuces and the melons." My kitchen garden is neat and pretty, with sixteen square plots laid out as nice as you please. Each plot has four different eatables planted in it, checkerboard-like, and all is hedged about with good-smelling herbs, like lavender, rosemary, lemon balm and thyme. I am very proud of it. It looks like God's best bed quilt.

"Yes, Mam." When my son is kissed, he lights up with such a happiness as would make the world forget what's wrong about him, so I do it often.

"How's the puff paste coming?" I asked my niece Amelié. Amelié was laboring over the first batch of puff paste I have allowed her to try to make alone. It is not easy, even with a slab of good marble to turn it on, and with ice-cold butter to fold into it. The secret is that the paste should have little flakes and bits of butter left solid in it, so when it is baked the butter melts and leaves pockets. This first batch of hers would probably not be fit for anything but pig feed, but some things can only be learned by doing.

Puff paste has more uses than I can name. In the morning it is the croissant by your cup of coffee, which can be filled with fruit or cheese or chocolate. It can be cut into rectangles and layered with pastry cream for a Napoleon, or with fish and sauce to be a coulibiac, or with mushrooms and beef for a Wellington. It can be vol-au-vents or bouchées; savory or sweet. It is not possible to make a twelfth-night galette without it.

When it is well done, it is as light as air and falls apart almost like a handful of dry snow when you bite it. When it's poorly made, you might as well chew boot leather. I make it every other day and I could make twice as much and never a shred would go to waste. I could sell apricot pinwheels and cheese straws by the dozen to the railway-layover crowd who haven't time for a sit-down meal.

Amelié wiped her hand across her brow. She was floured to the eyeballs. "It inn't so easy as you make it look."

"I started when I was your age—no more nor eleven. When you've been making it nine years, it'll be as easy for you. Sprinkle it with a bit of water, and roll it out again."

The post arrived; there was a letter from_ her. _I have come to expect a letter from _her_ about this time every month; it means that once again, her hope for another baby is dashed by her monthly bleeding. This was not the agreement we came to—it was supposed to be one letter each, once a year, but after her little son stopped breathing at twelve weeks of age, _she_ has written more and more often. She still has Rosalie, the golden daughter she wanted so much, but they need a son to carry on the name.

I cannot help but feel for her. I try to write back, but words don't flow on paper for me as hers do, and I haven't the time for much writing. And I have a son who reads as well as I can and wants to know all that I do. Rosalie has beguiled him somewhat. She is no more to him than a photograph of a little girl in a stiff dress, with sausage curls all over her head, looking as if she'd rather tear off and play, but she is as beautiful as an angel to him. He wants to hear about her, and how I met her mother. There lie dangerous waters; I do not tell him falsehoods if I can help it, yet a whole web of falsehoods surrounds the connection between our families.

"Madame?" asked Pierre Hussenot. Pierre and his family run those parts of the inn that do not fall under my governance. All that's to do with food is my business. "There's three come to stay in the guest cottage. One's an invalid, and two are Mohammedans; Monsieur Khan wants to have a word with you about meals."

The man who followed him into my kitchen was tall and dark. "Monsieur Khan—this is Madame Anne Touchet, our cook."

"Madame." He made a small bow to me. When he straightened, he might have been talking to me, but his gaze fell about a foot short of my eyes. "If I might—might, ah,"

Men have been addressing my bosom rather than my face since that I was twelve, but his eyes were popping more than most. I chanced a glance down. Well, it was hot in my kitchen, the string of my blouse wasn't tied and I'd been sweating. "Perhaps we had ought to step out into the garden." I suggested. "It's perishing hot in here." The guest cottage is at the bottom of the garden, so he'd be halfway home after.

"As you wish, Madame Touchet." I tied my strings as he went out before me.

"M'sieu Hussenot tells me one of your party is sick." I prompted him. "I've often cooked for invalids. I'll send over nourishing broths, baked custards—nothing but what's calm, strengthening, and easily digestible."

"He will eat but little of it, I fear. But yes, whatever you think will be best for him. You will not be offended if he spurns it?"

"Seeing as he's ill, no. But if a man can still swallow, he can swallow my madrilène and my puddings—is somewhat wrong?" His eyes were popping again, but not at my bosom. I turned to see what had caught him, but I knew before that. A man's first look at my boy will always take him that way.

"That—child." His voice came out all strangled-like.

"That's my son Erik. He is an ugly little boy, and I won't claim otherwise, but he is _mine. _He won't bother you or your friends. If you're afraid the sight of him will do your sick friend an injury, you can move to rooms in the house, if you like."

"Erik. Your son's name is—Erik."

"Yes."

"The cat he is playing with belongs to my friend who is sick." Erik had a long stalk of grass, and was twitching it for the moggy, who wiggled her hindquarters and pounced. His laughter sounded like a lark or a wren singing its heart out over the garden.

"He won't hurt her none. He'd sooner cut off his hand. If he hadn't ought to play with her, I'll tell him so, but perhaps you'd best keep her indoors with a dirt tray to do her business in."

"No—I am sure it is all right."

I looked at the man again. His face proclaimed that he'd had a shock, more so than most that see my boy. "_You_ all right?"

"Yes, Madame. Our meals—mine and my manservant's—should be made without pork or alcohol, and we do not eat any dish made with blood. Of course we will pay extra for your trouble. Here is something on account of it." He held out a few franc coins.

"I don't take tips. Any extra fees will be on your final reckoning." I was a bit short with him, but he was goggling at my lad still, more than is called for in a man of his years.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to cause offense."

"Then you should look at _me_ when you speak to me." I answered, as pleasant as sugar.

"I'm sorry. You do not have him wear a mask? Many would." He spoke quietly, which soothed me a touch. It showed he cared if Erik heard him or not.

"Many are damn fools then. A mask would go and make a secret and mystery about his face, and there'd be all manner of trouble. If he goes about in the plain light of day as he does, he's just a little boy. More ugly than is common, true, but that's our concern and none of yours. Invalid foods for your invalid friend, then, and dishes made without pork, blood or spirits of any kind for you and your man. You'll not object to eating what he eats, or shall I do something finer for you, seeing as you're the master?"

"No—I will eat whatever you prepare for us both."

"Will you be wanting something now to tide you over? Supper will be at seven, this time of year."

"Thank you. We have been provided with beverages; that will be enough until then."

"You're welcome. Your meals will be sent out to you; that comes with the cottage rental. Now you'll excuse me. I've much to do." I gave him my smallest curtsey, and turned back to my kitchen.

"Madame?" I stopped and turned to look at him again. "I crave your indulgence, and humbly beg your pardon for asking so many questions, but—for whom was your son named?"

"That's the oddest question I've heard this age."

"I—know it. Yet I ask."

"For his father. My husband." I said, and waited for the next question.

"And your husband is?"

"Not here." I turned on my heel. I was going to add a _great_ whacking fee to his bill for that little chat.

I went back in. There was still so much to do for supper. Once a week in May, I make a special dish—Starlings.

Tonight was the night for them. I have the farmers around here kill them, clean and dress them, then bring them to me before they've been dead two hours—I can tell if they've been dead longer. Then I salt them, sprinkle chopped herbs on them, like chervil and thyme, baste them with sherry and melted butter, and grill them with sage. I serve them on a dish of hot Indian corn mush, and charge fifty francs a dozen. I started with a hundred and twenty at a time, my first year here, and now I could easily serve six hundred and still turn people away. It's good that starlings are common and plentiful!

People come all the way from Paris on purpose for my food, all year round. The inn has been written about in magazines and newspapers. I could use more of my nieces and nephews to help out around here, but they would have to live up to my requirements, and that's not easy.

Everybody has to help with the starlings, in their own ways. I called Erik in and set him to work. I wrote the menu on the big slate for the common room, and on a dozen sheets of creamy paper for the posh dining room, and gave him the chalks and ink so he could do up nice borders for them. He never does the same design twice, and he so loves to draw. The paper menus that don't get torn or stained are in demand; all you have to do is cut out a center oval where the words were, and you have a frame for a photograph. I've started selling them to those as want them, and of course he gets the sous for pocket money.

I could not forget the guest cottage. For the Mohammedans, I grilled a shoulder of lamb with garlic and rosemary, which is so simple that's it's not really cooking, just waiting for the meat to get brown. For the sick man, I strained off some of the beef stock and added sherry and egg whites to fine it into consommé. I also baked him a custard with all the egg yolks left from making meringues, and broiled a sugar crust over top of it, a crème brulee. Only the sickest patients are not tempted by a crème brulee. It's the crust that does it; getting to tap and break it, then spoon up smooth custard and sweet crunchy melting splinters into their waiting mouth. It's like pretty underclothes—the crust makes the familiar custard more interesting.

I wish I had a use for pretty underclothes these days. But for my son's sake I live up to the pretense of an absent husband. He has a hard enough life without being labeled a bastard or a whoreson.

Once all the work was done for the moment, all the guests served, ourselves fed, the dishes gathered up by Hussenot's folk—and how I do hate to wash dishes and pans! That they do the washing-up is my favorite part of the arrangement… It was the blue hour, the quiet hour of night fall.

I went out into the garden, to learn that someone in the guest house was playing a fiddle. I never heard music like that before. It wasn't like the fiddling of our village tunesters—this was the May night made into music. I could hear the sound of the stream in it, the whinny of the horses in the stable, the smell coming off the herbs and the roses.

Erik was sitting under the first apricot tree. "Mam!" he said in an awed whisper. "Isn't it _beautiful?_"

I sat down next to him. "Yes. Let's listen a bit." We sat, unspeaking, unmoving, barely breathing, as the fiddle spoke without words.

When the fiddle wound down into a tired halt, he and I got up and went back to the house in silence. Some things are too deep to speak of, and this was one of them. Erik has a fiddle—I bought it for him last birthday, and already he knows as much as old Bertrand can teach, but this sort of music was new to him. He got out his instrument, and tried a few quiet chords.

"Not now, dearheart. Minna and Amelié are up above trying to sleep. After breakfast tomorrow."

"It isn't right, anyway," he said sadly. "Do you think…?" He let his sentence trail off.

"That you could learn how to do that? Of course. Start your washing up, so's I can have my turn…But you mustn't go bothering our guest to teach you, or else I could lose our place here."

"I won't, Mam."

"I know you won't. Into your nightshirt, now. What would you like to hear tonight? Something from Madame d'Aulnoy, or a bible story? Or shall I make up something new?"

"Just—just the story of us, tonight, Maman."

"All right, then." I sat down on his bed, and tucked him in, and, yet again, began to spin for him the biggest fairy-tale of them all, the one for which he may never forgive me, for which he may even hate me, should the truth ever come out. Between this lie and my other sins, I may have to get into heaven on the strength of my cooking.

"It was more than five years ago, when I was in service in a great house near Lyons, that I met your father, Erik Touchet."

"Which is my name, too."

"Which is your name, too." At first I didn't like him, 'cause he looked so strange, but—"

"He hadn't any nose. He was very ugly." I come near to crying every time he says that, he sounds so happy, but it's part of the story for him now. It's like a prayer.

"He didn't, and he was." I responded.

"I look just like him."

"You look a lot like him. At first I didn't like him, but after a while I came to realize he was very clever, and wise, and good at all sorts of things. And that he loved me. So when he asked me to marry him, I said—Yes."

My Erik laughed out of happiness.

"Because being all those things is better than just being handsome. And we were very happy." I went on.

"But then?" he prodded me.

"But then your father had to go abroad. We neither of us knew _you_ were going to be born. And he kissed me goodbye, and told me there was money in the bank to take care of me while he was away, enough so even if something happened to him, I'd be looked after. Then he left."

"And you were very sad."

"I was. But soon I realized I was going to have you, so I said to myself, 'All right, I've got to pull up—"

"Your stockings!" he shrieked with laughter.

"Hush, now. 'I've got to pull up my stockings and get practical. Where is the best place for us to live?'"

"And once when you were on the train, you saw our town."

"Yes, I did. I had to get off and change trains, and I took a walk and saw everything, and I stopped here at this inn for a bite to eat."

"And the food was just awful!" He makes a face.

"The food was just awful! The Boulangers owned it, then. Monsieur Boulanger couldn't cook! Madame Boulanger couldn't cook! None of the little Boulangers could cook! It was such a pretty inn, and right near the railway, but nobody here could cook! I remembered this place, and after you were born, while you were just a tiny baby who had colic and cried all day and all night and _never_ let me sleep…"

He makes a sad little moue at that, although I make a joke of it. He so fears displeasing me.

"I thought, what if they needed a cook? So I asked and found out the inn had a new owner, who did want a cook who could cook, and here we are!"

"In the best inn in the world!"

"In the best inn in the world. And we are very happy."

"We are very happy." he repeats, and he means it.

"And now it's time to sleep. I love you, Erik." I kiss him goodnight, and make as if to leave.

"Another!"

"Another? Do you think kisses grow on trees?"

"No, on flowers. Two-lips!" He says the last in English. What it is to have a three-year-old who makes jokes in different languages….

"All right, then." It takes but little encouragement for him to cling round my neck and press a few dozen kisses on _my_ face.

"I love you, Mam!"

"Good night!"

"Good night."

He has been busy from sun-up until now. He has raked the gravel in the yard, fed the chickens, gathered the eggs, picked beans with me, folded clean towels, checked over the butcher bills with me, and practiced his sums thereby, read aloud to us while we worked in the kitchen, woven lattice crusts for a dozen pies, fed cats, weeded the garden, drawn the borders on the menus, set the table, cleared the table, listened to music with me in rapture, out in the garden, done a dozen other tasks, great and small, and now he will sleep. He has worked as hard as any of us, and he is only three. It takes all that to wear him out!

It's not as if he was working down in a coal mine, though, or in a factory without air or sunlight. He is happy.

He is happy, and I am too, as Miao in the hay. Leastways, we are right now.

* * *

A/N: Okay, to anticipate a few of your questions. Erik _senior_ is the sick guest in the cottage, and also the violinist. Nadir is staging an intervention, and Erik is undergoing withdrawal from morphine. He won't have many more serene moments like that musical interlude, at least for a while. He will be suffering too much. 

He has never laid eyes on Anne, and that story notwithstanding, she has never met him either. How, then, in the days before artificial insemination, did Erik _Jr_. come into being? You'll have to keep reading…

There is nothing supernatural involved, and nobody has dropped in from another universe, either.

And yes, the starlings she's talking about are the birds you know as starlings. I wouldn't recomend eating city birds, though. You don't know what they've been eating.


	2. Breakfast

**Milk-Toast**

Ingredients:

Six slices of day-old brioche or other fine-textured bread

1 pint milk or half-and-half (one cup milk, one cup cream)

4 tablespoons butter

I tablespoon all-purpose flour

¼ teaspoon vanilla extract

1 teaspoon sugar

¼ teaspoon cinnamon (optional)

Cut the crusts from the bread, and toast it until it is golden brown. Do not allow it to burn. Butter it with two tablespoons of the butter, and put it into a dish large enough to contain the slices and the other ingredients when combined. Make a paste of the other two tablespoons of butter and the flour. Heat the milk or half-and-half. Drop bits of the paste into the milk and stir until the bits dissolve smoothly into the liquid. Heat the mixture until it begins to boil—it will suddenly puff up and threaten to outgrow the pan.

Remove from the heat. Stir in the vanilla extract and sugar until well combined. Pour over the toast. Sprinkle with cinnamon if desired. Serve hot.

Very good and nourishing for children, invalids, and the elderly.

**Erik:**

Darius brought in my tray. There was a pot of tea on it, with the necessary accoutrements: tea cup and saucer, slices of lemon, a spoon. There was also a small covered tureen. Ayesha followed him, caught up to him, and managed to reach my bed before he did. She sat on my chest and looked up at him with an expectant air.

"If you would untie me, I could feed myself." I growled. My voice sounded unaccountably rough to my ears, and my throat was slightly raw. Why was that?—I wondered.

"Sir, I cannot. For one thing, you would not eat if I did that, and for another, you would burst my eyeballs with your thumbs as if they were grapes."

"I would not do that."

"Sir, last night you promised that you would, the instant you were free."

"I do not recall saying that." I frowned.

"I assure you that you did."

"Let me state that in another way. If you do not release me _at once_, I _will_ burst your eyeballs with my thumbs as if they were _raw eggs_. If you do untie me, I will thank you for it, and do you good."

"If I do not untie you, you will continue to be unable to burst my eyeballs with your thumbs in any manner."

How I despise logic when it is superior to my own.

He put the tray down and uncovered the tureen. A cloud of fragrant steam came up from the bowl, and Ayesha became very excited. She crowded between Darius's arm and the bowl. "Away, you—cat!" he scolded.

"She is welcome to any part of my breakfast she wants. The more she eats, the less I have to. What is it, anyway?"

"I believe the boy said it was milk-toast, sir."

"Then it is cat-lap to begin with." I grumbled.

"As you say, sir." He spooned up a bit of toast and milk and held it to my lips. I took it; I could hardly do anything else.

Nadir came into the room. "Ah. There you are, Daroga. Might I beg you for the dignity of one free hand, at least?"

He came closer, and looked at me with great care.

"Any surprises? Have I perchance grown a nose?" I could not recall the last time I had worn my mask: not since the first night we had come to this inn. I did not even know where it was.

"You are speaking more rationally today." he admitted "and you are not shaking. One hand, then, Darius—after he's eaten. Perhaps when I return we shall risk unbinding you further."

"Where are you off to?" I asked.

"To settle up for the time being. Before I go, are you satisfied with this inn, or must we go on to another one again?"

I looked around. It was not an unpleasant room. The furniture was pale beech wood, and pleasingly simple. Some one had put a pitcher of irises in shades of white, yellow, and purple on the mantle. The walls were painted a soft willow green, the curtains at the window and around the bed were clean and fresh, and the bed itself was more comfortable than most. The food was…inoffensive. I don't care much for food. And Ayesha seemed to like it here. From where I lay, I could not see much out of the windows except part of a grove of fruit trees.

"I am tolerably content with it." I finally pronounced. "But why are they making you pay in advance?"

He was lost for words, and gaped for a moment. "Erik…we have been here over a week. You've lost track of the days, haven't you?"

"Over a week—It can't have been!"

"It's true, sir. You only stopped screaming the night before last. We had to gag you for three days, you were making so much noise."

That explained my throat. "This room looks and smells entirely too clean for a room I've been occupying for an entire week. Especially in the condition you say I was in."

"We moved you to this room last night so the maids could clean your old room." said Nadir. "It was noxious in there."

"Where, precisely, are we?" I asked.

"In the Grey Goose Inn, in a little town in Picardy called Evrondes, one train stop away from Rheims." Nadir replied.

He left, and Darius continued to feed me as if I were a child. Ayesha kept me from getting furious with her amusing antics—she batted at his hand, caught at his arm, and tried every seductive charm she could, to get at the spoon and the cream that was rightfully hers, all hers!

He had just undone the rope securing my right hand when Nadir returned.

"Undo the other restraints." he told Darius. "Can you come with me to the window, Erik? There is something you must see."

"If I'm going to expose myself at a window, I want my mask," I ordered. Darius got it for me. I was not literally exposed otherwise; I was dressed in a fairly fresh nightshirt.

I could make it to the window, but I was glad of the chair Darius brought for me. Nadir went into my trunk and located a pair of opera glasses, small binoculars enameled by a Russian master goldsmith. He brought them to me, and gestured to the garden.

Whoever had designed it and laid it out had a well-developed aesthetic sense, and an unusually creative one. It was a potager garden, laid out in plots, and devoted to growing food and useful herbs for the most part, but the colors, heights, and textures of the plants were carefully chosen and perfectly combined. The paths were narrow slabs of slate, and the tallest plants were around the outmost perimeter; then the plantings steadily diminished in height so the shortest plants were centrally located around the sundial, at the heart of the garden.

"Do you see those three people—the woman, the girl and the child? They're sitting on the ground to the right of the sundial. The child has his back toward us."

"Yes."

"Look at the woman. She's wearing a wide-brimmed hat."

"Yes, I see her. But why?" She was wearing a faded green skirt, a white blouse, and a dust-colored straw hat. Freckled and blue-eyed, that was my first impression. A thick plait of hair, either light brown or dark blond, hung down over her shoulder. She had wide cheekbones that curved down to a generous, wide, full-lipped mouth. That gave her face harmony and beauty.

She _was_ beautiful—until she grinned. Her grin was dreadful. That grin ruined that impression of beauty—it was as if the finest full-blooded Arabian horse were to open his mouth and bray like an ass.

Her grin disclosed great wide expanses of her pink gums, and an upper jaw full of crooked teeth, askew every which way. It was ridiculous—it was offensive—it robbed her of the mystery and enigma that is beauty, and made her an utterly ordinary peasant girl.

She and the children were picking strawberries. Her figure was generous, too. Her breasts strained against the fabric of her blouse, when she leaned over to put a handful in the basket they were filling.

"I see her. Why am I looking at her?" I repeated.

"Do you know her?" he asked me—anxiously? Why should he be anxious?

"No. I've never seen her before in my life. Why?" I lowered the glasses and looked up at him.

"You are certain? Might you not have met her, however briefly, some night, four or five years ago?" he pressed.

"No. I would have remembered her. She'd be a lovely creature if it weren't for those snaggle teeth."

"Keep watching them," he urged. "Watch the boy. I only ask because it is important."

"Very well." I raised the glasses again. They were talking and laughing while they picked berries. The woman and girl were obviously related. The arch of their brows—the color of their hair—something about their chins—and, unfortunately, their teeth, were too similar for it to be otherwise. Sisters, perhaps, as the woman was too young to be the girl's mother.

The boy still sat with his back toward me. His hair was darker, and he had on a shirt of weathered red. The woman looked around, spread her hands in a gesture that said, "No more!", and then pointed to another part of the strawberry patch. They shifted position—and I saw his face…

I saw his face, and it was like looking back through time at myself. He, too, had a hole where a nose should have been. He, too, was a living dead boy. He, too, was horribly and pathetically ugly—I could see everything about his face.

He was not wearing a mask…

He was not wearing any mask, and the three of them were sitting, picking strawberries and talking as if he was just like anyone else…

…and he was not unhappy. He smiled, yes, _smiled_, at something the girl said, and then the woman beckoned to him. He leaned over. She licked her thumb, and then rubbed at something on his face, some smudge or mark. He said something—I could not read his lips at that distance—and she nodded, smiled, and then leaned in to kiss him on the brow.

Oh, happy boy! His face lit up at that gift…

I fell back in my chair. The opera glasses slipped from my grasp, which had become as weak as water.

"His name is Erik also," said Nadir softly. "His mother says he was named for his father—her husband."

"The woman you had me look at—", I began.

"Is his mother, yes. She says of her husband that he is not here. And you say you do not know her, and have never known her."

"I do not. Before you ask, I have never been so intoxicated, not by wine, morphine or hashish, that I could have bedded her and forgotten it, let alone _married_ her. I may have lost track of time during this past week, while you weaned me off morphine, but I have never undergone such a deprivation before. And surely I could not have been capable of that sort of focused exertion, even if I had?"

Besides, there was only one woman I had ever touched; only one, and only once, at that.

Christine… 

"No," considered Nadir.

"What is she claiming as her married name?" As if that could shed any light on the matter.

"Touchet. Madame Anne Touchet." answered Nadir.

_It was my true last name. _How could she be going by that name? I had not even told Christine. Nadir did not know it. There were perhaps two people still breathing, not taking that young woman out there into account, who knew me well enough to associate that name with me—Mademoiselle Marie Perrault, my mother's best friend, and Doctor Etienne Barye, who had once wanted to marry my mother.

This was utterly incomprehensible to me.

"He has your voice, as well," added my friend.

Ayesha chose that moment to leap up on the windowsill, where she pranced and twisted back and forth, yowling to go out. I gestured to Nadir, who opened it for her. She leapt out and sped across the garden toward that family grouping. "Leave it open." I wanted to hear them.

"Oh, look," cried the younger girl, "it's Her Majesty come to bid us 'Good Morning!'"

"Hallo!" said the boy, "Look at her, she's got cream all o'er her chin…."

It was awful. Their abuse of the language was in keeping with those dreadful crooked teeth. They, both of them, —no, all three of them, I realized, as they greeted and praised my little cat, had provincial accents so thick they could be cut with a knife…and they spoke like utter illiterates.

"He doesn't have my voice." I denied.

"I understand that Edison has proven, with his recording device, that a person sounds different to himself than he does to others," ventured Nadir, "but allowing for his age, his voice is like yours. It has the same beauty."

"But _I_ do not sound as if I were talking through a mouthful of mush! Listen to them—it's terrible—it's vulgar! Have you found out anything about her—his _mother?_"

"Nothing—except that she is an excellent cook."

"A _cook_?" This was only getting worse…

"Yes. She is the cook here, and she is well regarded and highly respected. I have found out no more than that because caring for you has taken up every waking hour of our lives." He did not allow me any chance to reply to that, but turned to Darius "That woman put a hundred francs extra on the bill for special meals!"

"Sir, consider the fare we have been eating. Those pigeons last night were _inspired_—."

"I will long remember that lamb," said Nadir, in the tones of one recounting a religious experience. "And the roast duck. Her rice dishes are profound, and I do not use that word lightly."

"That chickpea stew was—." raved Darius

"_Her cooking is not important!"_ I shouted. How dare they banter like that at a moment that my world was reeling about me!

"If you had any palate at all, you wouldn't say that," said Nadir.

"I do not care. Daroga, you are, at heart, still an investigator. You are going to help me discover who she is—and how she became the mother of that boy."

Because if he _were_ my son, then that _cook_ was not his real mother. His real mother was, had to be, Christine. It could not be otherwise.

I had to find out.

* * *

A/N: Picardy is a province in the north ofFrance. It has no town called Evrondes, so far as I am aware, and if there is a Grey Goose Inn in Picardy, it is not this one.

Before I comment on anything, let's take a moment to contemplate Erik's situation at the beginning of this chapter. Tied down hand and foot to a bed—without his mask—wearing only a single garment, that can be pulled up easily—utterly defenseless, and unable to prevent _anything_.

MMMmmm.

Bit warm in here, isn't it?

Check out my bio/personal profile. There's a pic there that looks rather like the Eriks of this story. Erik senior wears a full-face mask. I think his smile is rather cute, actually….

Well! **Queen Ame**, I agree completely. He would not abandon his wife to run off to Paris and fall in love with Christine. This is happening after the movie. Hope this chapter clears up a few things for you.

Thank you, **Lexi**—hang in there!

Many many thanks to **flamingices**, **m-oquinn**, **Mia26**, **Erik for president, Sat-Isis**, and **Ellen**!

Still stalled on Professor Xavier. I can't get them out of the current situation! AAAaack!


	3. Elevenses

Elevenses (Mid-Morning Tea)

**Anne:**

I wiped my hands and took the path down toward the road. I'd been making scones when, ten minutes ago, a cannonball shot through the kitchen door and caught me round the knees—my son, crying his heart out. "There was—there was some children d-d-down by th'r-road. They was playing, and, and, and I wanted to join them, but—," and the rest got mumbled into my skirts. I could guess at it, anyhow. Teasing, taunting, and jeering.

I knelt down and took him in my arms. He wound his arms around my neck, and buried his face in my shoulder. "There, love." I rocked him a little. "Are you hurt anywheres?" His head shook back and forth, not up and down. No, then. That was a relief to me. "There, dearheart, don't take on so. It _was_ wrong and cruel in them. It's 'cause they don't know you. No one as knew you would—."

"But Louise Borchier—." was all I could understand out of the mumbling.

"Louise Borchier was one of them?"

"Yes, Mam."

That was another story. Louise Borchier had come by with her mother only the week afore, and Erik had taken her up the hayloft to peep at Miao and her new litter. I had got my son calmed and comforted. Now I was going to have it out with her.

The pack of them were still hanging about the road when I got down there. I didn't swoop down on them like a hawk on a chicken yard. Anyone can go and shriek like a harridan. I am not just anyone.

I smiled and called, "Louise Borchier, might I have a word with you a space?"

"Yes, M'me Touchet." She came over, all obedient-like, and I led her to the bench under the linden tree.

"How's your mother, Louise? Keeping well, I hope?" Louise was a gangly child of ten, with short black hair and greeney eyes.

"Yes, M'me." Ten minutes is the same as a hour to a child. She'd probably gone and already forgot what she said to my boy.

"Your mother does needlework as any woman'd be proud of. She's been sewing for the inn for close on three years now. I don't know anyone as sews a finer seam nor hem. Her mends are near invisible, and everything she makes up new is as fine as money can buy."

"Thank you, M'me. She—she'd be glad to hear you say so."

Louise had some wits in her head. That was well answered. Good, then. My words would not fall on barren ground. "It's no more than the truth. I'm always glad to see her, when she comes by with the week's work. But that you know, as you often help her carry it."

"Yes, M'me. She's teaching me to sew. Not on the inn's goods, though. I'm still learning."

"That's how it is with me and my niece Amelié. I'm teaching her to cook. Her cakes aren't ready for serving to guests as yet. Like you and your mother. Friends is guests as much as paying customers, and there's always a cup of tea and something fresh from the oven for her and for you. Like the scones I've been making this morning. If she's been to a lot of trouble or mended some clothes as a favor to me, I always send home a pie or a loaf with her in thanks. With six of you children, I know that gets ate up and enjoyed."

"Yes, M'me." Her little face showed she was thinking what to say. "She says coming by your kitchen is as good as a Sunday."

I knew that. Her mother had said as much to me, and often. Madame Borchier had six children to feed, a husband with _troubles, _and endless work at home. A visit to someone else's kitchen, where she could sit a space, be served with food and drink she didn't have to make herself, and chat awhile without six children calling, "Mam, Mam!" was a welcome thing to her, near as important as the money.

"And the francs she earns come in handy, too." I continued. "Your family seems small to me, 'cause I'm the twelfth child of seventeen—seventeen living, that is. But a few francs can mean the difference between meat in the pot or none at all—Did you know that at Rheims, the inn could buy tablecloths and sheets and towels, near as good as what your mother makes, and a deal cheaper? We could send out our mending, too. They've got sewing machines, see, and your mother sews by hand."

Her eyes went all dark and stricken.

"Then there'd be no more cups of tea or tartlets, and no more francs for doing our sewing. But having your mother doing our sewing isn't charity. She earns every sou. It's consideration of others."

"But why are you telling _me_ this, M'me?" she whispered.

"Because, and mark me well, I will see to it your mother never sews another stitch for the inn, if I ever hear, or hear tell of, you picking on any child so much littler than you, no matter what he looks like, whether he's my son or not."

She gasped, and the tears came to her eyes.

"Even if you're only in a group what's doing the teasing, I'll still do that, 'cause it means they're saying and doing what you'd say and do."

"But that wouldn't be fair!" she burst out.

"No, it wouldn't. But it'd be right, because of what you done to Erik. And when your mother came to ask me why, I'd tell her it was because she has a cruel and wicked daughter."

"Oh! Oh, M'me, please, don't! I'm sorry, I am, truly! I didn't mean it!" She was crying. Well, so had Erik.

"That'll depend on you, now. You can tell Erik that, when you come by on Thursday, and ask him to forgive you. You can go now, Louise. Just you think over what I said. What you do has consequences."

I never knew I could be so hard as I've become, these last four years. I didn't use to be. But that was before I had Erik. I can't make the whole world love him—I can't carpet and pad it all—but I damn well can make this part of it _respect_ him.

Problem is, the time is coming—and I can see it coming—when he'll outgrow this place. He'll need to learn more than what I can teach him—more than anyone here can teach. I had my first glimpse of that when that fiddle sounded out over the garden, last week.

How do I find someone what can teach him to play like that? Finding someone as was willing to teach him wasn't like to be as easy as getting old Bertrand. Him, I got by telling him I didn't like for a man his age to be going off home of nights, in the cold, to an empty house with nothing in his belly, and he should stop in my kitchen for a plateful and a glass of wine, say, two, three times a week, if he was of a mind to.

He said as he couldn't afford it, and I told him no one who eats in my kitchen pays a sou for what's served him. He came. All through that first supper, he could hardly find his mouth with his spoon for staring at my little boy, but two nights after, he said, as he left, that whatsoever Erik looked like, it was clear he took after me at heart, and was a fine lad.

Next time Bertrand came, he brought his fiddle. To give us a bit of a tune after dinner, in thanks, he said.

Neither Erik nor I ever had to ask Bertrand to teach him. He offered without ever knowing that had been my aim from the start. Bertrand saw how Erik looked when he played, and that had been enough. My son plays as well as his teacher, these days, and I tell old Bertrand he's a credit to his teacher. Of course, Bertrand still comes by for his supper. I don't use a body and drop him. I've done wrong in my life, but never so bad as that.

Perhaps I could go and have a word with the priest and the music master at church. I imagine, if I try, I can find the key as'll get my Erik in their doors. That will stave off the day I'm dreading—the day when his mind has grown beyond this place.

But that day is coming. What will my boy be like when he's six? What do I do when I can't give him enough chores to tire him out so's he can sleep at night?

What do I do when he finds out I've told him lies?

**Pretty Near Perfect Scones**

(Adapted for the contemporary kitchen)

Ingredients:

2 ½ cups all purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoon salt

½ cup sugar

6 tablespoons cold butter, cut in small pieces

1 cup raisins

1 egg

1 cup (8 oz) of plain yogurt or sour cream

½ teaspoon vanilla

Milk for brushing the scones before baking.

Preheat the oven to 425F, (220C). Spray a cookie sheet with cooking spray, or grease lightly with shortening. Sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt and sugar into a large bowl, or into the container of a food processor if you have one. Stir to combine.

Add the cut-up butter. If you have a food processor, pulse until the butter is invisible and the mixture is uniformly crumbly. Pour the mixture into a large bowl.

If you don't have a food processor, use a hand mixer—don't run it too fast, or flour will go everywhere—again, until the butter is invisible and the mixture is uniformly crumbly.

Mix in the raisins, by hand, with a spoon.

Beat the egg, yogurt (or sour cream) and the vanilla extract together in a small bowl, until the mixture is smooth and uniform. Add the egg mixture to the rest of the ingredients, and stir by hand until your dough will only just hold together.

Form your dough into lumps about 1 ½- 2 inches in size. Put on the cookie sheet. Brush the tops lightly with milk. Bake until golden brown—about 10-12 minutes, but keep an eye on them. Eat warm or at room temperature—store in an airtight container. Keep two or three days, unrefrigerated.

These scones are very, very good. Much better than any coffee shop scone you ever tasted—they're moist and stay tender. No frosting or jam is needed—although they are great with jam.

* * *

**Erik:**

I washed and dressed, partly with the aid of Darius. Nadir had gone off to find someone who was willing to be interrogated. We had worked out beforehand that I would continue to play the part of an invalid who was too weak to sit up and too fragile to bear bright light or loud noises, and participate in the questioning from my bed, with the curtains drawn, thus concealing me—and my mask. The sad truth was, I would not have to feign my weakness, merely exaggerate it. I had very little strength.

We three had discussed how to approach the subject of the cook and her son—if he was indeed her son—during our questioning. Rather than attack the topic directly, I would begin by asking about the history of the inn, and go on from there to the excellence of the food. That was not an area where I felt I could speak with authority, but the tea that was sent over was uniformly good, and the scones that accompanied it later that morning were not unpleasant. From talking about the food, it was only natural to talk about the cook, and thence on to the child.

If necessary—if someone thought I was asking too many questions about the cook and her son, if I seemed too curious, we, or I, would intimate that I knew a doctor who would be interested in the boy's case, and might be able to help. I truly didn't want to have to say that, though—to create a false hope, where none was possible. It would be such a cruel lie.

Nadir had no doubt that he was the cook's own son—and was inclined to take my disbelief lightly. God only knows how he thought the boy came about, in that case.

I—found my thoughts turning in an unwelcome and painful direction. Without morphine to dull the edges, _everything_ was painful.

What hurt most of all, at that moment, was memory—my memory of that night, when, if that child was my son, mine and Christine's—that night when he was conceived.

It had been of a piece with the rest of my sorry existence—a hideous disappointment, made all the worse by the certain knowledge _that it had all been my fault_.

…Christine asking, pitifully, in such a thin little voice, "Is it over?"…

I heard Nadir. "One moment, M'sieu. I will see if he is awake."

I said, feebly, "I'm here."

"Monsieur Makepeace—." said Nadir. I was registered as Guillaume Makepeace. I think it was a joke on Nadir's part. "Monsieur Hussenot has consented to answer a few questions for you." They entered the room. Hussenot sounded, from the weight of his footsteps, like a man who enjoyed his food.

"Ah. How kind of you." I said. "Forgive me if I don't greet you properly. Please, won't you have a seat…?"

"Thank you, Monsieur." He had a bluff, hearty voice, slightly nasal. I heard a chair being shifted, and I caught a glimpse of a slightly elderly man, with a red face, white hair, and a beard. He _was_ somewhat paunchy, as I had deduced. "I'm glad to spend a little time with you, if it can help take your mind off your sufferings. Terrible things, sufferings."

He had no idea. "I am very grateful. Now, this inn is such a charming place, I would very much like to know something about it. You are the innkeeper here?"

"Yes, I am, with the help of my wife, and two of our granddaughters." he replied

"They must be a great comfort to you. Are you also the owners?"

"Me—? Oh, no, M'sieu. I wish that I were! I only run it—run the half of it, I should say. I book the rooms and oversee the maids, the wait staff, the stables, and so on. Madame Touchet runs the rest."

"You _don't_ own it… Then, who does?" I was surprised—an absentee owner is unusual. Most people live over the shop… "Won't you have a cup of tea, Monsieur Hussenot? I confess I am becoming fascinated."

"Oh, thank you. I don't know who owns it—it used to belong to the Boulanger family, but they sold up, over three years ago, lock, stock, and barrel, as they say. This was a pretty run-down joint then, let me tell you! And in a little nothing of a town, barely a fly-speck on the map. That's why they put the railway exchange here, because it wouldn't interfere with anything. It didn't seem like it would be a good investment to me, but if I could tell a thing like that, maybe I would own this place…

"Let me tell you how it was," Hussenot continued. "Over three years ago, when my good-for-nothing daughter-in-law went and got herself remarried, she dumped our granddaughters on our doorstep! Just dumped them there! As if our two dear girls were trash! And we were living on my pension from the telegraph then, and it wasn't nearly enough…" I braced myself to endure this whole boring tale.

"We saw an advertisement in the newspaper, that there was an opening for an innkeeper here. 'Special preference given to married couples, of good character. Need not be young but must be active and honest. No culinary duties of any kind will be required. Apply in person'. And it gave the address. So we came here, and instead of the owner doing the interviews, it was a young fellow from this law firm in Lyons. And there were all sorts of people applying. Didn't think we had a chance, really. He talked to us, we talked to him…"

Hussenot's voice had a very soothing quality, somehow. It would have been easy to fall asleep, but I became alert when he said, "So I asked the young man, 'But what about the cooking? You can't run a place like this without food!'

"He said, 'That's all been taken care of; a very superior cook has already been engaged. She'll arrive here in a few days, with a letter of introduction. She's a young woman with a baby, respectably married and all, but her husband's gone abroad, and may be away for a long time.' And then he tells us about how our duties end where the kitchen begins. The cook was to have the authority to hire and order, bid and forbid. Even if she wanted to tear out the kitchen and remodel it, it was to be done, all as she pleased."

Hussenot took a swallow of tea, and then went on, "I never heard anything like it! And her only a she-cook, too! If it were a man-cook, a master chef de cuisine, that would be one thing, I thought, but that was back then, before I'd eaten a bite of her food."

"The food here is quite extraordinary." I ventured.

"Thank you, sir! And so says everybody. Her cooking is what's made this place. Not just this inn—the town! There are shops here now, that wasn't before, because the inn draws people, and when the ladies and gentlemen go for a walk to work up an appetite, they like to do something. And folks come all the way from Paris, just for the food here—they write for a table weeks, even months in advance, sometimes."

"What was your first impression of the cook—Madame Touchet?" I asked.

"That she was awful young—which she was. And too pretty to be a good woman—I mean, when a girl has a figure like hers, the men won't leave her alone—usually. But then, there was the…baby."

**TBC…and soon!**

* * *

**A/N:**

**Sue Raven**: No sooner said than done! I'm changing the category slightly—to mystery. It seems to fit better…

**Ellen**: Yes, unless I start getting flames about the recipes, I'll include appropriate ones here and there. Expect some profound rice ones around dinner time.

**Sat-Isis: **a squee? A squee from a fan? That's enough to make ME squee! Thanks!

**M-o quinn**: I hope this continues to intrigue you. I don't want to reveal too much too soon…

**Mia26**: I'm doing my best on the updates. Chapter four is well underway already.


	4. The Innkeeper's Tale

**Erik:**

(Monsieur Hussenot, the innkeeper, is reminiscing about the first time he met Anne.)

His voice grew serious. "She came up from the railway station in a hired wagon, with her things—she'd brought a lot of kitchen equipment along, and one of her sisters was with her—not Amelié, her niece who's here now, another girl—and the baby. The baby was in a basket, with a thick veil drawn over it, but not just to keep off the dust and the flies…She came in, and introduced herself and her sister, and gave me the letters from the law office.

"I took her up into what's our private sitting room. She drew off her hat, and her gloves—it was late summer, so she was just wearing little gloves, of net lace— and set them down. She put the baby's basket on the table by the window.

"My wife offered them a cool tisane (A/N: a tisane is French for an herbal tea), but Madame Touchet said, 'There's something I have to show you first. This has to be done straight off, no two ways around it. My baby—my son Erik. He's sleeping in his basket here. I'm going to uncover him, and it's going to be a shock to you. Don't go screaming and waking him, now.' Our two granddaughters were right there. She folded back the veil….Have you seen Erik Touchet as yet, M'sieu?" His voice was gentle, almost tender.

"Yes. From the window." My voice sounded strange in my ears…

"Then you know," he said, simply. "It _was_ a shock…I thought, 'The poor girl's mad, her child's been dead for days, and no one's done a thing for her.' But then he breathed in, sighed, and stuck his thumb in his mouth, just like any baby.

"'Cover him up—hide him again.' cried my wife.

"My granddaughters had gone white. Eugenié had stuffed her handkerchief in her mouth, and was biting it so she wouldn't scream, and Virginié had both hands pressed over _her _mouth, and turned away.

"'No', says Madame Touchet. 'This is my place of work and my home now, and it's going to be his home, and people are going to have to get used to him, and he to them. If you don't like it, I'm sorry, and you can write to the law office and complain. You didn't hire me, and you can't fire me. But I'm not hard to get along with, as you'll find. . I'll have that tisane now, and thank you.' She sat down next to the basket, and put her hand in on the baby's head and stroked it, very gently and lovingly.

"My wife brought it, and served her and her sister, Martine was her name. Martine Norbert. Martine didn't seem any happier about the child than we were, and it seemed as if it was going to be more like a wake than a welcome, with that baby Death there in his basket. But Madame Anne smiled, and thanked my wife, and asked, had the workmen been doing a good job smartening up the place, doing repairs and re-plastering? And so we managed.

"After she'd drunk the tisane, we showed them around. The kitchen wasn't attached to the main house, back then, but in a separate building, so the food smells don't get into everything. Now there's a hallway that links the two, so the drafts won't chill the food on the way to the table, but then it was a small house all on its own—it has a basement, there's two stories and an attic. She went in, and looked about—the workmen had been given orders to finish the kitchen first, and they'd put in the electric, the running water that wasn't there before, the gas cook-stove and ovens, and even a water-heater."

"Whoever it is that owns the inn seems to have spared no expense in modernizing it." I commented. "Electricity—running water— the kitchen has a gas stove, and there are water closets."

"Yes—and they didn't stop where the guests do, as some folk would have. The staff's quarters—our quarters— are as modern as any of the rest. Madame Touchet seemed to have expected it, for she looked about and nodded, and said 'It'll do, I'm right pleased by all of it.' Then we were occupied with showing the carter's boys where to bring her things from the wagon.

"The baby woke up, with all the noise that we were making, crashing and banging of pots and pans, crates and barrels—and he started to cry. He sounded more like a bird than a baby.

His mother went to him and picked him up, and talked to him. Not in baby talk—but more as if he were a much older child. 'See, Erik? It's just as I told you. We're home now.' She took him to the window, and pointed out. 'That's where I'll have the kitchen garden, and it'll be a fine one. There'll be fruit trees over there, towards the fields. You and I'll go searching for wild mushrooms in the woods, there, that's inn property, too. We'll have a good life here, till your father comes home to us, and after that, like as not, he'll stay here with us, too. We'll be very happy here.' She kissed his head.

"She saw us looking at her, then, and snapped, 'Just so you know, he's named for his father, and he looks like his father. As to why I would marry a man who looked like this, that's my business, and none of yours. I did, and that's all I'll say about it.' Everyone had stopped, and was staring at her.

"She looked about, and smiled at the carter's oldest son, and said, 'I don't know as what you're stopping for. I haven't tipped you yet.' That got them all moving again. She took the baby upstairs, then, and spent a while up there, in the rooms where they've been living ever since. Some of the things were their clothes, so we had to go up and down. She sat in a chair by the one window, rocking him.

"My wife did say, later, that it nearly turned her stomach when Madame Touchet undid her bodice to nurse that baby. She didn't know how any woman could bear to have _that _suckling on her. I didn't see anything—she put a shawl over herself and the baby." He sounded a little sad about that.

"She did nurse him, then." commented Nadir, with a hint of satisfaction.

_It just proved she had_ **a** _baby, not that she had_ **that** _baby_, I thought, and stored that argument away for future reference.

"That girl was divinely equipped for that maternal task." Monsieur Hussenot had a hint of ribald awe in his voice. "I don't know how she was built before she became a mother, but they didn't shrink afterward…

"Anyway, the first meal she made for us was chicken and dumplings, and from the first bite, I knew why she'd been hired. Those dumplings were as light as feathers and soft as velvet, with just this hint of thyme to them…but if you stay here long enough, you'll find out for yourself. We all settled into routines around the inn, but about three months later, there was trouble. I hope I'm not boring you with this, M'sieu?"

"No, not at all." I demurred. "Monsieur Hussenot, you are a natural raconteur. I could listen to you all day." …_which is exactly what might happen_. I thought, but in all truth, I was enslaved to his story. I did not want him to stop. I wanted to know it all.

"That's very gracious of you. My wife wouldn't agree with you! Three months later, _the baby started getting out of his cradle!_ They all do that eventually, of course, but little Erik was only six months old—and looked it! In terms of size, I mean… And he was talking! Just simple words, then—_Mam!_ and _Milk!_ and _Love!…"_

Can I admit that brought tears forth to sting my eyes? It did.

"He was crawling about when he should barely have been able to lift his head, always wanting to follow his mother around, and getting underfoot. That was the cause of the trouble…Now, I think the situation as it stood between the sisters was just made to cause bad blood. Martine was older than Madame Touchet, two years older, and not only was Martine not married, she had her job only because of her sister, and had to take Madame Anne's orders. Martine wasn't the cook her sister is, she wasn't the worker her sister is—_and she couldn't stand the baby! _

"There were two cradles, one for the room upstairs, and one for the kitchen, so's she wouldn't have to be carrying it up and down all the time, and while he could get out of the kitchen cradle, he couldn't get out of the upstairs one—not yet, anyway. Her sister Martine thought she should leave him in the bedroom cradle, but Madame Touchet wouldn't hear of it. When her sister asked Martine to sit by the cradle and talk to him, and rock him, so he'd stay put and let _her_ work, even though it would mean Martine would get off any other work, (which would have suited her just fine, we all thought,) she wouldn't. Martine threw a hysterical fit, instead!

"Oh, it was terrible, M'sieu! The awful things Martine was shouting, such language that she used—and all in that Alençon accent of theirs! The baby screaming! There was eggs broken, dishes too, and clouds of flour in the air. Such a mess! We had to go in there and rescue Madame Touchet…she was huddled down over the baby, on the floor. That was the only time I've ever seen her beat down by anything.

"'Right, then.' she said to Martine, once my wife had thrown water on the sister. 'Just you go up and pack your things. There's a train this evening as'll get you back home to Alençon. I'll give you your back wages. I'll pay for the train ticket, and give you five francs besides. I didn't ask that much of you, but I told you when it started as I wasn't asking you on holiday. I said I'd give you a hand up, but you'd have to get your feet under you and stand. You didn't, and after this…Just get you home, and tell Mam and Da about how you burned your bridges here.'

"Martine spat at her—and I mean she let go with a gob! Hit her sister right on the cheek!—and said back, 'I don't see you going home to show them their grandchild. Happen I'll have something to tell about that! Who'd you marry then, as got that brat on you? The devil?'"

That was a question I wanted to ask Madame Touchet myself.

"I'd have thought she would have slapped Martine across the face for that." pondered Monsieur Hussenot. "But no, she didn't. She wiped that gob of phlegm off with the edge of her apron, and said, 'Reckon as remembering what you just said will comfort you of nights, when you can't roll over in bed for sisters on either side of you? Or when they're all borrowing your new clothes and using up your bottles of scent? Good bye, Martine. I wish you well.'

"With that, Madame Anne counted out a handful of francs, and held them out. When Martine wouldn't take them, Madame Touchet turned her hand over, and let them fall to the floor. I think that might have been a worse insult than the slap, from the look on Martine's face…

Then she took the baby up, gave him a cuddle, and went out for a walk with him. She didn't come back until after her sister was gone. Once Madame Touchet left the kitchen, Martine was down on her knees, scooping up those francs fast enough!

"What did you do?" I asked.

"What could we do? We went up and saw to it Martine packed, and only took what was hers."

"Why would you do that?"

"Why? You see, M'sieu—it was clear, from before she got there, that Madame Touchet was the reason behind the inn—that the owner, who ever he is, had bought it with the plan to install her there as cook. Her cooking is what draws the customers. We could never get another cook as good as she is on the wages that she makes—but she has more money to draw on than what the inn pays her—at least, more than what I give her every week as wages. I wouldn't be surprised if that law office in Lyons, where I send the accounts and the profits, doesn't turn around and put a tidy sum into a bank account for her."

"Why is that?" I inquired.

"Because she had money enough to buy what the English call a dog-cart, a little country carriage with room for a passenger, the driver, plus space enough for a large dog to ride behind, and a pretty mare to pull it. Once her sister had gone, Madame Anne came back, asked that it be brought round, and asked my wife if she would drive her over to see Father Anselm. She couldn't drive it herself, as she had to hold Erik, and wouldn't ask anyone else to do that or to watch him while she was gone. Of course Madame Hussenot agreed, and off they went.

"It wasn't a surprise that she should want spiritual comfort after such a heart-wrenching scene, but that wasn't why she went there. She went to ask if Father Anselm knew of an older woman who needed a home desperately enough that she would be willing to look after Erik—not all by herself, but in Madame Touchet's kitchen, like she had wanted her sister to. Madame Anne said she would treat that woman just like an aunt or grandmother.

"Old Sophie came back with them that night, and she's been there ever since. Sophie can't manage stairs any more, so they turned a small pantry into a bedroom for her, on the ground floor."

"And the proposal worked for them both?" I wanted to keep the story flowing.

"For all three of them. Madame Touchet is no dummy, don't let that face or that accent fool you—or those melons on her chest, either! She let Sophie know that she'd treat her as Sophie treated Erik. These days, Erik goes to Sophie as if she was his favorite grandmother, and Sophie goes to Mass in a fine wool gown, with fur-lined gloves in the winter, and silk flowers on her hat in the summer."

"What happened to Martine?" I was curious because it seemed to me that Martine could be a good source of information, even if she did not know it herself.

"She got on the train to Alençon. We haven't seen her since, and the only time Madame Anne has mentioned her since, was after she came back from their mother's funeral, a year and a half ago. She said Martine was well, living with one of their other married sisters and looking after _that_ sister's children."

That wouldn't prove useful in tracking her down.

Monsieur Hussenot continued, "When she came back after the funeral, she had her youngest brother Claude, the baby of the family—I understand Madame Touchet has ten sisters and six brothers,."

_Seventeen children!_ That put my former assistant Jules and his wife Annette to shame. Anne's parents must have been at it like _rabbits—._

"And her niece Amelié, daughter of the oldest brother, with her. They've worked out much better."

"How—how have people taken to the boy, around here? Are you and your family still as shocked?" Perhaps I was going a bit too far; perhaps I should have stopped…

"Well—his face did take some getting used to, there's no denying it, but _we've_ gotten used to it. He's a good boy, when all's told—he minds his mother most of the time, he's very quick and bright, and pleasant in his ways. It's a real treat to hear him sing. He doesn't go off the inn property without his mother, but she takes him into town with her to shop and visit around, and to Mass on Sundays. The people around here know the score—they know which side of their bread is buttered! If Madame Touchet left, so would the tourists and the visitors—and their francs.

"Mind you, things do happen now and then—A few weeks ago, in the dry-goods store, a man grabbed little Erik, I don't know why,—I wasn't there, I only heard about it from Eugenié, who was—and the boy screamed. Madame Touchet turned around, and let that man have it. Right in the face! Dislocated his jaw, or near enough!"

"Was there trouble over that? Was she arrested?" I asked.

"Her? No, I doubt there's a gendarme in France who would arrest a weeping mother, especially a pretty young one, for protecting her child… They used to get a Peeping Tom now and then—whether it was to look at the child, or to look at her, I won't speculate, but not since they got the dog a couple of years ago."

"A dog?" I hadn't seen or heard one close by.

"Yes, a Bas Rouge bitch they call Truffle. Are you familiar with Bas Rouges? They also call them Beaucerons. Old Jacques Boulanger, great uncle of the Boulanger who used to own the inn, he breeds them. He still lives up in the woods, here.

"They're big, and they have a mean look. They make good trackers, good hunters, good herders, and good guard dogs. They can be damn vicious! That one that Madame Touchet has would do anything to protect her or the boy. Die—or kill. Right now, the dog is back up in the woods, getting bred. There'll be Bas Rouge puppies in a while, around here. They'll be going up to reclaim her, soon."

That was valuable information. If I went for a walk at night, I would know to be on the lookout for her. Dogs are such thoroughly good creatures; it's only men who make them bad through clumsy treatment and ill usage…I remembered my Sasha. It was good that the boy had a dog—and perhaps he would get to keep one of the litter.

Darius coughed politely. "Excuse me, sirs, but one of the Mademoiselles Hussenot has come to say that her grandfather is needed."

"Ah, well. I've filled the gentleman's ears enough for one morning. I hope I've diverted you a little, at least. You listen like a Christian, sir, and for my part, I've enjoyed it." He heaved himself out of the chair, and extended a hand through the curtain.

After a startled moment, I took it. He wasn't acting as though he could see me—see the mask, that is. I shook it. "Thank you, Monsieur. You have indeed eased my hours. I hope you may have a chance to come again—tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day?"

"Have to see how busy we are, M'sieu!" he said, jovially. "Good day to you both…"

Monsieur Hussenot went out, his dignified tread dying away as he left the cottage.

* * *

**Chicken Soup with Feather-Light, Velvety Dumplings**

**Soup:**

3-4 quarts good quality chicken broth or stock

2 cups chopped cooked chicken

3 carrots, chopped

3 stalks celery with leaves, chopped

1 large onion, chopped

½ cup fresh parsley, chopped

2 teaspoons salt

½ teaspoon pepper

**Dumplings:**

2 cups sifted all-purpose flour

3 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

2 eggs

½ cup part-skim ricotta cheese

¼ cup lowfat milk

1 tablespoon fresh thyme, finely chopped

1 tablespoon fresh parsley, finely chopped

In a very large pot, combine the broth, chicken, carrots, celery, onion, and parsley. Bring to a boil over medium heat, then reduce to a simmer. Salt and pepper to taste. Remember that it is always possible to _add _more seasonings, but impossible to take them back out.

To make the dumplings, sift the dry ingredients into a small bowl. (The salt, flour and baking soda are dry—the herbs are not.) In another small bowl, beat the eggs with the ricotta and milk until well mixed. Stir in the herbs. Add to the flour mixture. Mix until just combined. Use a tablespoon to form the dough into lumps. Drop into the boiling soup. Cook 15 minutes. Serves 8-10. Best fresh; not bad on reheat.

If you have ever had bad, heavy, tasteless dumplings (sadly, most dumplings are like that) these will be utterly unbelievable. If you have never eaten dumplings, these will set an impossibly high standard. Are you willing to risk that?

* * *

**A/N:** In a large family of that era, siblings of the same sex often had to share a bedroom and a bed. There was nothing sexual or wrong about it. Martine and Anne both knew what sharing a bed with several sisters/cousins/nieces was like.

Hello, **Sat-Isis. **You have me blushing… I would be honored if there was a Gevaisa Cook-book—good luck explaining it, though! I virtual hug u.

**Thornwitch**, you are so right. There are a lot of Norberts out there. Martine is one of the less pleasant ones. It'll get interesting.

**Mia26: **There are some oblique clues in this chapter**. If you try the scones, or any of the recipes, let me know…That goes for everybody!**

Thanks**, Stine. **OCs and OWs are a tough sell. I'm glad I'm getting her (Anne) right. And Erik is challenging.

Hey, **Lexi:** Booyah? Love the word. Deliberately writing bad English…ohh, wouldn't my old teachers have a fit… I hope Anne still comes across as intelligent. Luv u.

**Sue Raven**: Yes! Yes! I got somebody hooked! Okay, I'll calm down now…

**Euchrid Eucrow: **Good eye! Like Water for Chocolate was one of my inspirations.. Others are: the movie Chocolat, with Johnny Depp, the works of Terry (Discworld) Pratchett, the movie Tampopo, a Japanese film all about the human relationship with food and the quest for the perfect bowl of noodle soup, the novel Madensky Square by Eva Ibbotson, and the works of P.G. Wodehouse.


	5. An Incident before Lunch

An Incident Before Lunch

**Anne:**

I can't grow enough strawberries for the inn's use, not in my bit of garden, but what I can grow I save for our table. This was the first day as we'd got more than a handful of berries, and that's always special. Some would get cut up and sprinkled with a little sugar—tonight we'd eat them with crème Chantilly. The squashier ones would go into muffins.

We was all busy cleaning them and picking them over, when my son tugged on my apron. "Mam? Is this what they mean when they say as someone has a strawberry nose?" He turned his face up to me.

He'd gone and stuck a berry in his nose-hole. And he had a big grin full of mischief on his face.

The first thing as struck me, was that aside from the color, it looked right natural. He'd found one as was just the proper shape.

For a moment, we was all too shocked to say a thing. Claude and Amelié looked to me to see how's they should take it.

I started to laugh, though I wanted to cry, too, cause it _was_ funny. He was a little boy just being a little boy. He thought of a joke, a good one, and that he _could_ laugh about his face was perhaps the best thing I'd done in raising him. He wasn't going to turn out like that doctor said—he wasn't going to be a dangerous lunatic as was too clever. He was my good brave little Erik.

We all laughed, Sophie, Minna, my brother, my niece, and my son and me. For five minutes, we howled and hugged our ribs.

Then I straightened up, and tried to sound serious. "That was very funny. Now take it out, and I don't want you doing that again. Them strawberries is too good to waste. I'm not serving it to anybody after where it's been."

He put his hand to his face, and then wailed, "Mam—I can't get it out!"

It was stuck.

When something like that happens, he gets all het up right quick and clings on to me—like when he gets a cold. He hasn't got a nose, so the snot has to come out somewhere, and it comes out of the corners of his eyes—like it does to everyone, only instead of just a dab, all of it has to come out there. One night so much had come oozing out, and then dried, that his eyes was sealed shut. He woke and couldn't open them, and he set up a screaming as could have been heard in Paris. It's good as he's still small enough to be carried—I had to take him to the washroom and soak the crusts off with water, and he was too scared to realize at first as he could see again.

"Don't go all panicky on me, now, dearheart!" I tried to calm him, "Keep breathing deep through your mouth."

"Try blowing real hard." Claude put in. Erik tried, and all that happened was his face got redder.

"Not being helpful, Claude" scolded Amelié. "Shake your head, maybe it'll fly out." He shook it so hard I thought he'd hurt his neck. He wailed louder

"Hold him upside down." suggested Sophie.

"No! Look, love, I've got to go upstairs. I've got something there as'll have it out in a wink, only—," He held his arms up for me to pick him up. "The stairs are too narrow for me to carry you! Now, don't cry, it'll only swell you up and make it all the harder to get the berry out. See, I'm going to give you to Sophie, now, and she'll hold you. I'll be right back!"

"Don't go, Mam!" he cried as I ran for my dresser. With all the things my brothers and sisters had stuck up their noses in their time—beans, pebbles, five-sou coins, and more—I knew what was the best tool for fishing up a child's nose, or nose-hole, this being Erik. A hair pin.

I was back down, where he was whimpering a little still, and said, "Hold still." By the time I'd got all of it out, anyone would have thought as I'd only just cut his nose off then. There was mashed strawberry and berry juice everywhere, all over his face, his front, and my apron. Looked as bloody as a massacre.

"Give a good blow, now. All done! You all right?"

"It's all sore." he moaned, rubbing his face. "I wish I had a nose like everybody else!"

"If you did, you'd only be sticking other things up it, like my brother, your uncle Michel. He got one of the pawns from our priest's chess set stuck up his nose, and our Mam near died of shame over it." I told him.

"He did?" asked Erik.

"Yes," said Claude. "The family still talks about it."

"Now, you go upstairs. Wash your face, change your shirt, and get your walking shoes on, cause this is the day we bring Truffle home." I said.

"Yay!" he shouted, and clapped his hands for joy.

"You and I'll have us a walk and take some sandwiches, and when we come back, Amelié will have muffins made for us all." I sent him on up the stairs. "Don't fret now, Ame, it's a simple recipe."

* * *

**Strawberry-Orange Muffins** (for the modern kitchen)

Ingredients:

1 ¼ cups halved strawberries.

3 tablespoons butter, melted

2 teaspoons grated orange rind—freshly grated at home is best, but the dried kind in jars in the supermarket spice rack is just fine, and means you won't grate your knuckles preparing it.

2 large eggs at room temperature. You can bring them to room temperature quickly by putting them, still in their shells, in a bowl of hot water.

1 ½ cups all purpose flour

1 ¼ cups sugar

1 teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon salt

Cooking spray

2 teaspoons sugar

Preheat oven to 400 F.

Combine the strawberries, melted butter, orange rind, and eggs in a blender, and process until just blended.

Combine flour, 1 ¼ cups sugar, baking powder, and salt in a large bowl. Stir to blend. Add strawberry mixture and stir to blend until only just combined. Do not overbeat; the muffins will be tough if you do.

Spoon batter into 12 muffin cups coated with cooking spray. Sprinkle with two teaspoons of sugar.

Bake at 400 F for 20 minutes or until the muffins spring back when touched lightly in the center. Remove from pan immediately. Serve warm, with butter or strawberry jam.

Best fresh; may become slightly sticky if kept overnight.

* * *

A/N: The story about a child's eyes being glued shut by dried mucus is taken from my own childhood, and I have a perfectly adequate nose! I was about four. My grandmother had to take me to the emergency room.

Well, after getting 3 reviews in one night, I thought I'd better do something fast! This little vignette seemed to me as if it could stand on its own. A longer chapter is in the works.

**Erik's Girlfriend: **The muse of fics is… fickle. My other story which I think is also quite good (shameless self promotion, ahem!) demanded a turn. I will keep both going as long as I can.

**An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin:** the recipe in this chapter is dedicated to you, being, as it is, a muffin recipe without either cheese or sheep. What a mystifying name you have…

**Anonymous:** Glad you like it! Haven't I read something of yours somewhere? ;)

**Sat-Isis/Suten Net: **Do you really think I'm going to give the answers away already? (BEG)

**Josette:** Thanks! I was getting tired of all the beleaguered heroines in need of singing lessons. I was trying to do something different, and I'm glad you think I succeeded.

**Lostschizophrenic:** How precisely did you become lost? Can I help?

**Sue Raven**: Thanks! I'm blushing!


	6. I am not going to eat that

**Erik:**

"I am very sorry, but I am not going to eat that." I told her. "I appreciate all the trouble you took, and I'm sure it's delicious, but I just wouldn't enjoy it, not as I should."

Her blue eyes gazed searchingly into mine. She said nothing. She didn't have to say anything; her expression said it all. In it, tenderness mingled with a reproachful look, backed by an iron resolve that I _would_ eat.

"Oh, very well," I caved. "But it probably won't agree with me." I used sleight-of-hand to make it appear as if I popped the headless mouse into my mouth. I pretended to chew.

She made the sound that I associated with her deepest pleasure as I swallowed.

"Mmm. Thank you, Ayesha. What a mighty hunter you are, and generous, too. You brought back a mouse for us to share. What a darling…" She sat and purred some more, a wonderful, rich deep rumble that thrummed as I petted her. The unfortunate mouse now lay hidden in my pocket; I could dispose of it down the commode later.

I was sitting near the open window. Looking out at the pleasant garden, I could see one of the inn's waiters make his way down the central path with a heavily laden tray. Nadir followed at his heels. I withdrew to the concealment of the bed, lest the waiter see a man in a mask spying on the inn, as I was doing.

I looked at my watch. Yes, it was lunchtime. The prospect of yet another meal made me frown. I had that milk-toast for breakfast, however involuntarily, and then eaten a scone out of defiance to show Nadir I was capable of looking after my own needs. That was as much or more than I would ordinarily have eaten for several days. I felt bloated.

I suppose that an inn renowned for its food would want to showcase its greatest attractions, but the cook's determination to stuff guests full at every possible excuse was wearying. It reminded me of the way my mother urged me to eat. At least _this_ Madame Touchet (however spurious her claim to that name might be) did not threaten me by telling me the gypsies would steal me for being bad.

When Darius brought in yet another small tureen, I told him "I don't want any lunch, and since I'm no longer tied down, I shan't eat it. As you and Nadir seem to like the food here so much, you are welcome to divide it between you."

"If we can," he said thoughtfully. "Unclean food is still unclean, however delicious it may smell."

He left me, and in a moment, I decided to try my strength to the point of leaving the room, with the goal of joining them in the cottage's dining room. I could do it, but only just. Had there been stairs, I would not have made it.

The dining room, like the rest of the inn's guest house, had been furnished simply and without clutter. The furniture was sturdy rather than elegant, but some thought had been given to the appearance of the place; the wall paper had a design of apples and leaves on a cream ground, in a pointilistic style, printed in dots of red, green, and teal. Cushions on the chairs and curtains at the windows picked up the colors, and a vase of ivory lilac flowers stood on the sideboard.

"Have you changed your mind?" asked Darius. "We haven't dished it out yet. It's onion soup with toasted bread and cheese. Gruyere, I believe." Master and manservant were eating together, I noted; no ceremony here. I sat down at a place that was not laid for the meal.

"No, you share it. Please, eat. I'll do most of the talking. What have you learned?" I asked Nadir.

"That we have a cold lunch today because on Mondays, and again on Wednesdays, Madame Touchet has the afternoon off," replied my friend. "But since it is cold roast chicken, a salad of fresh new peas, and that hot onion soup you have donated to our repast, I believe we will not suffer too much hardship until the dinner hour."

"I had guessed as much. She and the boy went up into the woods a quarter of an hour ago," I commented as Darius divided the food, spooning out mounds of peas glistening in a creamy dressing, colored like the finest Imperial jade. "They took a picnic lunch with them."

I paused. "He and I are not absolutely identical. His eyes are blue; mine are yellow."

"His mother's eyes are blue." commented Nadir, as he pulled the drumstick from the chicken.

"She may not be his mother." I said, as I had before that day.

"As I recall, Christine's eyes are blue. Therefore, I believe I am safe in repeating that his mother's eyes are blue." he returned. "You have not mentioned the other obvious difference."

"His mouth; yes. He has normally shaped lips, not asymmetrical lumps. I have not observed his teeth well enough to say anything about them. He is too young to have his permanent teeth as yet; milk teeth can be remarkably unlike the second set."

"True." admitted Nadir.

"I have given this considerable thought over the past two hours. I'm not yet ready to share with you what I think are the likeliest scenarios behind Madame Anne and _her_ little Erik. I need more information—otherwise, I'm merely spinning stories around them."

"I am sure you are."

I gave him a hard look. He was being sardonic. I could play that game. "I must make an admission to you. The name I was born with, the name I used until my ninth year, was Touchet."

"I had thought it must be. Your astonishment was clear to me, despite the mask."

"Be that as it may." I continued. "There are two persons now living—I presume they are still a live, but I don't keep track of them—who knew my mother, who knew me, when I still went by that name. Madame Anne must have come across one of them."

"I see I am required to believe you when you say you never—met Madame Anne."

"Yes. You are." I bit out.

"Peace!" he exclaimed. "I believe you—until and unless it should be proved that you did."

"It will never be proved!"

"Then let it pass." he said. "Will you make an effort to locate them now?"

"Yes—if it can be done. I will write to Jules, he should be able to find them."

"He may have found other employment,." Nadir pointed out. "It has been over four years, after all."

"So he might," I agreed. "But even if he has, perhaps he would be willing to make a few inquiries—for old times' sake. Now, will there be another employee of the inn coming by in the afternoon, to relieve the long hours of a sick man?"

"There will be two, and from the kitchen staff itself. I have found out a few things about that little household." He took a spoonful of the soup. "This soup is a _poem_ in broth."

"I am willing to hear about them, if you are willing to tell." Did he have to keep going on about the food?

"During the day, there are six people who are always there. Madame Touchet and her son have been there the longest, of course. She is only twenty years old; he is turning four soon. They live on the second floor, above the kitchen, where they have two bedrooms, a sitting room, and a washroom.

"Madame Sophie Durant, eighty years old or close to it, has lived there over three years now. She lives on the ground floor, in a converted pantry, next to the bathroom, another conversion. The pantry is now in the cellar, along with a true innovation—a refrigeration machine, imported at great expense and with great difficulty, from Germany."

"Interesting—what gas does it use as a refrigerant? Ether?" I would appreciate a chance to examine that machine, if I could do so conveniently.

"I am afraid I did not ask."

"Oh, well. Will Madame Durant be paying a call on me this afternoon?" I inquired.

"No. She has great difficulty walking. Her continued employment seems to be an act of charity on the part of Madame Touchet; the boy no longer needs her, and she can do no work except what can be done while sitting in a chair."

"If she is, as Monsieur Hussenot said, like a grandmother to the boy, and if Madame Anne is a woman of her word, then it is not a matter of charity. One does not turn one's grandmother out of doors—at least I suppose one does not. I have little personal knowledge of such matters." I said.

"I have known those who allowed their elders to die of neglect, while they lived lapped to the lips in every luxury." said Nadir, roughly.

"Dear me," I replied lightly, "you will shake my faith in the goodness of humanity, Nadir. You have spoken of three out of the six. Who are the three others?"

"A kitchen maid, known as Minna Toussaint, seventeen years old, and mute. She is, if not imbecilic, certainly slow-witted, yet a very capable worker. Her job is to do a great deal of the preparatory cutting and measuring. She is afraid of the stove, afraid of fire in general, and afraid of grown men."

"I do not like to think of what usage a girl-child who cannot speak might have undergone." I said.

"Indeed. She came from a charity home two years ago. She was jumpy, and as thin as a rail when she arrived, but in the last two years, surrounded by food in abundance and with a kind-hearted cook as her employer, has grown stout and happy. She and Amelié Norbert, Madame Touchet's niece, have rooms in the attic."

"You are quite the font of information, Nadir. Given that she is a mute, and afraid of men, I take it she will not be paying a visit later, either."

"No. Amelié Norbert and Claude Norbert will be coming by. Amelié is eleven. She and Claude are here to learn the art of cooking, on a rather less formal basis than that of an apprenticeship. Claude Norbert is, at thirteen, Madame Touchet's youngest sibling. He sleeps in rooms above the carriage house, along with the stable hands. I must also add that Amelié will not be coming indoors to speak to you—it is not permitted. No female employee of the inn is allowed to be alone in a bedroom with a male guest, or in the cottage to clean without Madame Hussenot on hand to supervise her. She will speak to you from outside your window."

"A very proper establishment, which oversees the virtue of its young girls, I see. Well, I will be glad to learn more of Madame Anne's family life. It may be that one of them knows where and when she is supposed to have been married to her mythical husband."

"Are you elevating yourself to the level of myth, Erik? You have the most overweening pride of any creature on Earth—."

"Nadir! Had we not already agreed that you were to take my word that I do not know her? No, whatever name she may claim, wherever or whenever or whoever she claims to have married—she is not, was not, was never, has never married. I would stake a great deal on that."

"Why? What insight leads you to that conclusion?" he asked.

"Because if she was married, having such a child—however she came by him— would have destroyed her marriage, her happiness, her life, her every hope and dream. His face would have blighted everything—as it did my mother's life. As it has mine…Instead—and this you have seen yourself—she is _happy. _Having this child has _made_ her life here. There is money behind this—a great deal of money. Trace the money, and we shall come to the truth." I was shaking with emotion. I pushed back from the table, and made my way back to my room. I could not endure company, even that of Nadir, for a moment longer.

I suppose it might have been possible that there was no connection between that child and myself—that chance and nature had randomly combined to afflict him with a face so similar to mine that he could be taken for my son—but I doubted it.

Back in my room, I seized the glasses again, and trained them on the path I had seen Madame Anne and the boy disappear down, and settled myself down to wait.

How much money had it taken to buy that great, sturdy, maternal, _cow_ of a girl to take the baby off the Chagnys' hands?

Could not Christine have done better for our child, than to put him in the care of an illiterate peasant who thought of nothing beyond the next stupid meal that had to be made?

Why not a musician's family, an architect's, a doctor's, someone who could do him some good in the world?

How much money would inspire the bovine affections of an Anne Norbert to the point where she would put the face of that child to her breast?

And what had happened to the baby she must have borne, for her to have milk to nurse him?

* * *

**A Salad of Fresh Green Peas in a Creamy Dressing**

Ingredients:

3 cups fresh or frozen green peas

1 cup fresh sugar snap or snow peas (the kind where the peas are eaten in their shells)

½ cup sour cream (can use crème fraiche or plain yoghurt)

2 tablespoons chopped fresh chives OR 2 tablespoons minced garlic, according to your personal preferences

2 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro OR 2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley

2 tablespoons chopped fresh mint

1 tablespoon lemon juice

1 teaspoon curry powder

Salt and pepper to taste

Lettuce

Put the 3 cups of peas, fresh or frozen, in a colander, and pour boiling water over them, until they are slightly softened, if fresh, or thawed, if frozen. The point is not to cook them, just to be sure they are clean and soft. Put them in a large bowl with the sugar snap or snow peas, and toss to combine.

In a small bowl, combine the sour cream, the herbs and/or garlic, lemon juice, and the curry powder. Stir to blend until consistently smooth and thoroughly combined. Add salt and pepper to taste. Pour over the peas, and toss until they are smoothly coated.

Serve on a bed of lettuce.

The same dressing is also good on a salad of small fresh string beans and button mushrooms.

* * *

**A/N:** All recipes offered—not those simply described, like the starlings—are ones I have made, eaten, and served to others, who made enough noises of appreciation to convince me it was good. They come from a wide variety of sources, from my late grandmother to various books and magazines, but _all of them have been improvised upon by me. _I believe that a recipe need only be altered by 10 or more to be out of copyright—if I am wrong, it is an honest mistake.

**Awoman**, this recipe is for you! I hope you have room to make it. Fresh sweet peas are a real treat that people don't appreciate when all they know is the overcooked kind. All of my other readers should really check out her fic, entitled **What a way to live!**

**Whatanoddgirl:** Good eye! Like Water for Chocolate was one of my inspirations.. Others are: the movie Chocolat, with Johnny Depp, the works of Terry (Discworld) Pratchett, the movie Tampopo, a Japanese film all about the human relationship with food and the quest for the perfect bowl of noodle soup, the novel Madensky Square by Eva Ibbotson, and the works of P.G. Wodehouse.

**Erik's Girlfriend:** Actually, Little Erik is turning four next month. Thank you for your enthusiastic review, btw…

**Anti-sheep cheese muffin**—you make me think I should be deeply concerned for your mental health.

**Thornwitch:** It may be that when Meg Giry marries the Baron,( from Leroux) she has the wedding and reception at the inn. You'll have to wait and see…

**Lostschizophrenic,** I'll do my best. Here's an update. Fraid Erik senior isn't in a very good frame of mind…

Many thanks also to **Sue Raven, Lexi, flamingices, Ellen, Josette and Sat-Isis. So many many lovely reviews…ahh! Keep them coming!**


	7. A Walk In the Woods

I once again disclaim ownership of anything from Leroux, or Susan Kay, whose Phantom I am referencing heavily in this chapter.

Warning: Some bad language in this one—but British slang, not American four-letter words.

* * *

"Mother is the name for God in the lips and the hearts of all children."—Vanity Fair, William Makepeace Thackary.

"Do you understand? Do you understand?" Added by James O'Barr, in the comic book and movie, The Crow,

* * *

**Anne:**

Truffle sniffed around the roots of an oak, then looked at me, pawed the ground, and gave a little whine.

"There's a good girl," I told her. "Not the right time of year, but happen as we'll come back when it is. Mark that tree in your memory, love." I said to my son. "She's found us some living gold."

The Boulangers were living on a gold mine, and never did they know a thing about it. No more did I, until I lived here, but up in these woods, there's truffles aplenty, and as good as any from the Perigourd. I've dug up all colors—the white sort, which is the most plentiful and least prized—the black kind, which is uncommon, expensive, and supposed to inflame the passions—and rarest of all, the red-grained black, which is not so well thought of. You'd think being rare would make it more valued, but no.

So when a Beauceron pup came our way as was what they call a 'harlequin', black, red, and white, it was only natural to name her Truffle, and, having named her Truffle, only right as she should be trained up to sniff them out.

"After the first frost, and until the snows start coming serious, right, Mam? That's when we go hunting truffles. And we don't tell nobody about it, never."

"That's right, and that's why you're going to go to any school as you want to, when you're growed up, dearheart." I squeezed his hand. "All cause of what grows out here. We don't have to spend a sou on what other inns and restaurants pay hundreds and hundreds of francs to buy. All we need is two afternoons a week."

"And Truffle's nose! Mam, don't forget her nose. She finds them. We just dig them up."

"We had to train her up, first, though." It wasn't so hard to teach her to do it.

When she was six months old, I started by giving her bits of sausage with truffle in, for a treat when she was good, so's she learn the smell of truffle and know it meant a tasty bite was coming. Then we brought her out here, and Erik put bits of truffle sausage all around tree roots, so she learned where to smell for it. Then we just put bits of truffle about, and gave her the sausage when she found them, until she was rooting them out like she'd been born to.

There's those as say pigs is better truffle hunters than dogs. That's as may be, but a pig will eat the truffle where a dog will want the sausage more. And a dog don't weigh five hundred pound, like a pig might, and dogs is more biddable.

"Will her puppies be good trufflers, too?" he asked me.

"Like as not, if they're taught. Now, you know as we can't keep them all, dearheart? Most of them we'll sell. But we'll keep one, and you'll have first choice of them."

"Yes, Mam. Are they inside her now?"

"Happen as they are, most like. We won't know for a while, yet. But they've got a lot of growing to do before they're ready to be born. Weeks and weeks. Beginning of August, that's when they're like to come."

"And then they'll be like Miaou's kits, with eyes as isn't ready yet to see."

"That's right. All they'll do is eat and sleep and cry. Just like any babies. Just like you did—only you could see."

"Look!" he pointed, and I was right glad he was distracted, as his questions would take a turn toward something else. I don't think he's ready to hear about how babies is made, whatsoever kind they are. "The brambleberries is blooming." And so they was, all pinky-white against the green of their leaves, like a bridal garland for the forest.

"They is. It looks grand out here, don't it? The sunlight looks like silk ribbons streaming through the trees."

He laughed. "It's a beautiful day!" he cried out. "Mam, can I run? Can me and Truffle run?"

"Long as you don't go getting too far ahead." I told him. They took off. It was a beautiful day, after all. The birds was singing, and the sugary scent off the ferns hung in the air. I can be glad of a moment alone, much as I love my son.

The woods was like a cathedral decked out for something solemn but joyful, with flowers and banners and music in the air. In a way, it was, too, being spring.

Up ahead, I heard Truffle's happy bark, and a peal of laughter from my boy, to answer her.

I don't worry too much when Truffle's here by him—she'd take a chunk out of anyone as tried to lay a hand on him. I know, cause that was part of what I got her for. I wanted a big dog as could help protect us, and one of a breed as had the repute of being tough, so folk'd think twice before meddling. Then I trained her to the limits of what she could understand—and she's a smart dog. She knows as what her jobs be—and she knows she don't take food from any hands but mine. Or my boy's. Excepting old Jacques, who bred her, of course. I won't have no one poisoning her nor drugging her so as to steal her.

That's the dog as bit two fingers off a man who went and tried to jump me after dark in the yard, last autumn as was. We don't talk about that, though.

She may look as she's ready to rear up and tear out anybody's throat, but with family, she's gentler than a lamb. She'll even pick up a kitten or duckling in her mouth and carry it home to its mother, alive and without a tooth mark.

I can never think of dogs what has got the name for being vicious without remembering Doctor Bayre, and that day on the train…

I paid for a first class compartment, and by all rights I should had it to myself, that is, myself and the baby. I could afford it, now, and clothes as made me fit in among the others in first-class. Erik was one month and four days old, and he and I had left the convent hospital only hours before. I had a new gold ring on my left hand, but I was traveling alone, with a new baby. I had no nurse, no maid, no husband, nobody at all along of me, so in that way I wasn't like the other women in the private compartments. I wasn't quite respectable, and I knew it, but what could I do?

It wouldn't have mattered, except that it was high July and the weather was awful. Storm after storm came down, with thunder and lightning like it was the end of the world.

When the conductor came, touched his hat and said, "Madame, forgive me for disturbing you. Ordinarily, your privacy would be regarded as sacrosanct," which was a word as I'd never heard before, "but the extremity of the weather is such that we must call on a right reserved by the railway for times such as these. We must prevail upon you to share your compartment. The passenger who will be joining you is a prominent physician, a gentleman advanced in years, and a man of eminent respectability. You may be assured he will conduct himself with the utmost propriety. Of course, should you or your infant become indisposed as a result of the fatigues of travel, he would be honored to attend upon you."

If that happened today, I'd pull out my handbag, take out some franc notes, and say, "Have you looked _everywhere, as yet,_ for a place for the doctor, M'sieu?" and count my francs until his eyes told me I'd found his price.

Then I'd put the money in my pocket, tell the conductor, "Please come back and tell me when you've found the gentleman a place," and give my pocket a pat, just once.

But back then—and it isn't even as I'm so much older now nor I was then, cause I'm not. It wasn't four years ago, when that was—I put on a posh voice, like the Countess's, and said, "While I feel for the gentleman's plight, my child is quite small and I'm afraid he will disturb the doctor. He will also require such care and attentions that delicacy forbids me to mention. Perhaps the doctor would be more comfortable elsewhere?"

I can talk like a fine lady when I've a need to, but it was all for naught. The conductor said, "Ah, Madame, but the gentleman is a doctor! He wants only a place on the train. He is familiar with all stages of the human condition, and as he is a physician, you need not fear for your modesty."

So Doctor Bayre came to join us in my compartment. He wasn't a problem at first—after he begged my pardon for being there, he sat and read, and I sat and did crochet. I could buy whatever baby clothes as Erik would need, but I'd done so much crochet for others' babes— in my family, _somebody_ was always having a baby—that it didn't seem right as my own son shouldn't have something from my hands. Besides, I'd got good at crochet, and knitting too.

And having work in my hands gave me space to think. There was reasons enough to fill a bushel basket as why I wasn't going home to my Mam and Da. Some of the reasons was new-minted, and some went back years gone by. I was going to Madame Julie, as was the head cook in the Comte de la Fere's kitchen, and the woman who taught me all I know about cooking, but we couldn't stay there forever.

I was no closer to an answer as to where we should go, when Erik woke up hungry and fussing about it. It was then as the trouble began.

"M'sieu?" I gave him a glance as said I'd be grateful if he'd turn his head, and he did. With a shawl to cover me as the baby nursed away, the doctor had never a look at either of us. But once he was fed, of course he had to be changed, so I got out a towel to lay him on, and everything else needful. When I laid my son down, I heard the doctor whisper, "Mon Dieu…"

"I know," I said, and I think that may have been when I began to change into the woman I've become, since, "You've never seen anything so hideous in all your life." I was still keeping up the act of being a lady.

"Erik…" he said.

"How did you know his name was Erik?" I asked. It come as a shock to me. I _knew_ as I hadn't said his name.

"I believe, Madame—it is Madame?" Asking, was I married?

"Yes?" I pleaded. I should've snapped.

"Forgive me, Madame, but—you _are_ married to the father of this child?"

"Oh, yes," I lied. Today I'd have the…_face_ to carry it off, but that day was the first as I'd tried to pass myself off as married and a mother both, and I couldn't look him in the eye. I was scared, too. I'd been told as fewer nor a handful of folk knew about _him_.

"I thought not." he said. "Madame—I will continue to call you so—I beg that you will regard me as you would a priest—a priest of the mind and body. I will treat any secret you confide as if it were made in confession. Are you well-acquainted with this child's father?"

"Hardly at all." I said, no louder than a sigh.

"Ah…"he hummed. "Did you even see his face?"

"No." He had to read it on my lips, for no sound came when I said it.

"Oh. You poor child. You poor child. Tell me—did it come about from an act of violation? Were you forced, or deceived? Neither would surprise me."

"No!" I cried. "Nothing of the kind!"

"Was it poverty that forced you to it? Forgive me, but I have noticed that although you are well-dressed, every article is new — very new. Your prosperity is of recent date, is it not?" His eyes were kind and warm. Yet I didn't care for them at all.

"Yes." I could not deny it.

"You would not be the first young woman who has had to do what she otherwise would not—for money. It must have been a great deal of money."

"It—it" I didn't know what was safe to own up to. More secrets than my own was at stake, and this man seemed able to see through near every lie I could spin up. "It was enough to keep me—and him—in comfort." I told him, at last. "But please, M'sieu how is it you come to know so much? If there's anyone in the world as has the right to know, surely I've that right?"

"Yes—I suppose you have." He shook himself. "It was almost twenty-five years ago, when I lived in a town called St.-Martin-de-Boscherville. Her name was Madeleine Touchet. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen—and the only woman I have ever loved. She was a young widow, and she had a child…"

I listened. For miles, and miles, as the train jostled its way toward Lyons, he told me the story of that little boy, as he knew it.

Only thing is, I don't think I was hearing the story he thought he was telling.

I heard about a child as was kept shut in, with bars and boards across his windows. I heard how he never got to play in the sun.

I heard about his unnatural fast growing, mind and body. I heard about how he was talented beyond the gifts as is ordinarily given to men. I heard about the beauty of his voice. I heard about how the priest thought he was possessed.

I heard how his mother was forced to beat him for being bad all the time. I heard how he tormented her. I heard about how he was made to wear a mask all the time. I heard about how the doctor met the mother, and what the boy did then, to try to keep her to himself. How he was driving her mad, with a web of illusion and delusion

I heard about the villager folk. I heard about the dog as was the only creature that loved him. I heard about how she died…and what he did then, how he rushed out with the thought of killing her killers, and nearly died, being stabbed in the midst of it all.

And then he disappeared.

Doctor Bayre finished it all up by saying—"And so, Madame, what I suggest to you now is—that you should step out for a moment at the next station. There will be a pause of a quarter of an hour—you might wish to refresh yourself. When you return—it will all be over."

I thought a moment. "You mean as I should leave him here along of you?" I couldn't be bothered to keep up the voice of a lady—not after what I'd heard.

He blinked. "Yes. That is what I mean."

"And while I'm out, you'll put your hand, or a cushion, or somewhat else over his nose and mouth."

"I would be releasing you—and releasing him as well. It will be a mercy."

"You think that's for the best?" I asked.

"I know it."

"Doctor, I've listened to you all this time, and never did I interrupt you nor question you. Now it's my turn, and I'm in hopes as you'll give me that same courtesy, and hear me out."

"As you wish, Madame."

"First thing I got to say is, that Madeleine of yours was a stupid little _slag." _I didn't raise my voice, I kept it soft and low, cause Erik was sleeping, but I put feeling into it.

He gasped. Well, he'd set up a shrine to her in his heart, I could tell that from listening to him talk about her. Don't suppose as anybody used language like that to him real often, neither.

"And I'm going to tell you _why_. You talked about what he did with mirrors. Don't you know as the first mirror you sees yourself in, _is your mother's face? _You learn all about what you be from her. What did she show him he was, every day he lived along of her? Oh, I don't wonder she had to beat him. If you never show a child you're ever happy with him, that you're pleased by what he does, if you start off by being hateful to him, _of course_ you got to be hideous to him when he's bad, just to show that there's a difference. And once she started beating his body, she was also beating in that doing violence on somebody is how you _show_ them. Didn't none of you ever raise a dog? A vicious master means a vicious dog!"

"But—" he began.

"I could go on and on. I could tell you as why she couldn't have done worse if she'd gone and studied to. I could answer you back for every thing you told me about how she raised him. Like how he tried to keep you away from her. You know _buggar_ all about human nature, no more nor she did. Of course he wanted her all to himself. I'm the twelfth of seventeen living children—there was twenty-three of us born living—and every new baby meant _there was less for the rest of us._ Less love—less food—less room—less of everything. Nobody wants to lose even a drop of what we've got."

"Madame—" he tried.

"Maybe you'd have seen better if you wasn't wanting to get your leg over her. But she was _beautiful. _If she'd had a face like an old boot, you'd have thought more of what she was doing to the child. I thank you for telling me all of this, Doctor Bayre. You've gone and told me all of what not to do."

I pulled the cord for the conductor, and when he came, I said, "Sir, I ask you to remove this man. He made an improper suggestion to me—You're not going to claim as what you suggested you should do at the next station wasn't improper, are you, Doctor?"

"I—" he stuttered. "I only thought—.Perhaps it would be for the best if I left Madame" and he let that hang.

I finished it for him. "Madame Touchet."

"If Madame Touchet were left to pass the rest of her trip in solitude."

I've never forgotten a word of that. You don't forget things like that.

The conductor was right puzzled as he led the doctor away. I couldn't help that, though.

I could help how I raised up my son. Everyday, I do the best I can. What eats my peace is the thought of what's to come, when he finds out his world isn't built on the rock of truth, but on the shifting sand of lies.

At least the love is real.

May I be forgiven, oh, may I be forgiven…

* * *

**A/N:**

**There is no recipe in this chapter, because, (uncharacteristically) nobody eats anything. The recipes will return!**

To my reviewers: A brief shout out to most—all are highly appreciated, however!

**Lostschizophrenic**—hope the sibs aren't getting you too down—just think, you could be Anne and have 16 of them!

**Sue Raven:** Keep guessing!

**An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin**: Er—okay!

**Lexi: **Well, Erik Sr. has issues. Erik Sr. has the entire run of National Geographic Magazine in terms of issues. From day one. In mint condition. Kept in chronological order in clear plastic bags.

**Thornwitch**: I love Robin Mckinley! Haven't read Sunshine yet, though—but I'm getting it from the library. Beauty is one of my all time favorites. The sad fact is, I reported a girl for abuse, because she was copying long sections of it into her Phanphic, word-for-word, without credit or disclaimer—and R. Mckinley is one of the authors ff has forbidden fics of, at her request. I don't know what happened, but all her stories disappeared.

**Lucia:** Thank you! Are you an international reader? I don't recognize the country code of br.

**Erik's Girlfriend:** Oh, a death threat. By Punjab lasso, no less! In no other realm of life or fic is that an honor…

**Awoman**: In order to answer your lovely review properly, clearly I must write you another email! You may expect it soon.


	8. A Glass of Limeade

Mademoiselle Amelié Norbert arrived in the middle of the afternoon. It was (as I had begun to realize) inevitable that she should be accompanied by still more food. This time it was a plateful of muffins, which she said were strawberry-orange. They were a peculiarly flesh-like color, for some reason. There was also a tall pitcher, full of a misty pale liquid and bedewed with condensation.

"It's minty-limeade," she explained. "With _ice_. Cause it's too warm today for tea. I made it. I made the muffins too."

"Thank you, Mademoiselle Norbert. It will be very refreshing, I'm sure." As Nadir had explained, she did not, would not, enter the cottage.

It was a lovely afternoon, really, and a drowsy one, with the hum of bees in it. Dust motes danced in the ray of sunlight that moved down my wall, more gracefully than ever La Sorelli or Jammes ever could have done.

Amelié Norbert sat on the ground underneath my bedroom window, under a young willow tree. Occasionally, we had to raise our voices or repeat ourselves, but all in all, it was not an unsatisfactory arrangement. "Do you understand why you're here, Mademoiselle?"

"Cause you're sick and listening to folk talk puts your mind off it." she said. "Though I don't see why you'd be wanting to talk to _me_, sir. I'm just eleven, and I can't think of what to say. I'm nobody important. I'm just my aunt's prentice cook. I could tell you how to make limeade, if you like. Or muffins."

"You could tell me about yourself—about your life, and how you became your aunt's apprentice. I would find that of interest. As for the limeade, I would rather enjoy drinking it than hearing about it. It was very thoughtful of you to bring it. Thank you."

"You're welcome, sir." She was a very polite young creature.

"Now, you are Mademoiselle Amelié Norbert, eleven years old, and an apprentice cook. Where does Mademoiselle Norbert come from?"

"From Alençon, sir."

"Alençon! I thought I recognized your accent! I'm from Normandy, also. I grew up in a town not so far away from there—in Boscherville, in fact. That's closer to Rouen than it is to Alençon, though." It was the very accent in which Sasha's killers had spoken, a lower-class accent, of course. No wonder I disliked it. I had not made the connection until that moment. That was interesting.

"Yes, sir. All of our family come from there. We used to be lace-makers, but now there's machine lace, and there's no call for hand-made, not as once was."

"What a shame. And so you're learning to cook instead?"

"Yes, sir. My aunt picked me out of all the nieces and cousins, to come here with her."

"I'd like to hear about that, but begin at the beginning, if you would be so kind. Mademoiselle Norbert from Alençon has a family and a history before she came here. I would very much like to hear that story."

It took some more coaxing until she would lay aside her reticence, but once the floodgates of conversation were opened, a stream of words poured out of her. She was not the storyteller that Monsieur Hussenot had been, but then he had been talking for at least fifty years longer than she, and was much more practiced as a consequence.

"All right…_My _Da's name's Robert, and he's the eldest son of our Gran-da, whose name's Robert, too." I had taken a glassful of limeade, out of politeness to her, and I sipped at it while she told me about being the fourth child in her family, with two elder sisters, five younger ones, and only three brothers. The Norberts did tend to produce females—Anne had significantly more sisters than brothers, if I recalled correctly.

I had little knowledge of the lives of girls such as Amelié—or Anne, who at twenty—four years younger than Christine—was barely more than a girl herself.

I could guess at the life of a daughter of the upper classes, but the life of a lace-maker's child was something else again. They had no servants—they themselves were servants. In a large family, child care was a significant part of that work.

So, too, was the endless struggle to make ends meet, making the food budget stretch to feed all the mouths, mending clothes until they were more patches than original cloth, fighting to put just a little aside against illness or death. But there were good things about it as well—never being lonely, or bored. I wondered what that must feel like.

Her pretty little face creased up in seriousness as she recalled her all the significant details of the life she had led—up until she had been chosen by Anne.

"And then our Gram died—our Da's Mam, as was. That was when my Aunt Anne came home, with Erik."

"What was that like?"

"Oh—we all heard about what he looked like, cause of my Aunt Martine—but I ought not to be talking about that."

"Why not? He is a very—unusual looking boy."

"It isn't right. Asides, I was a silly little girl back then, and I'm shamed, a bit, to think on how we welcomed him. And he was so little, too. No more nor two. We—all screamed, and pretended to faint, like. My—my sisters made up stories and rude songs about him, and they—we teased each other, saying that this one or that was too chicken to touch him, or that if she did, her nose would shrivel up and fall off. That was how I came to be playing along of him, cause Addie said as I was too yellow to go and do it."

"So you went and did it, to show her."

"Yes. He had a toy horse and cart, with crates and packages that went in it. It was a _grand_ toy, from a shop, not just a rag baby as my Mam might make. Aunt Anne wasn't there, she was talking about the funeral with my Da and Grand-Da and the others. I went over, and_ I_ said, 'Hello, Erik, I'm your cousin Ame, is that your wagon?' _He _says, 'Yes, I have to go buy everything for the inn. Do you want to help?' So I sat down along of him, and we made believe that we was going all over the town, only some of it was out of fairy-tales, as my aunt had told him, and—All I had to do, to win, was play with him until the clock chimed the quarter hour, but then it was over an hour later, and I still was playing. "

"Did you like playing with him, then?"

"Yes—I mean, it wasn't what I'd meant to do, he was so ugly and all, but—I found, after I'd played with him awhile, as I liked playing with him better nor being mean to him. Cause he was so happy I was there. I'm shamed that ever I thought as being mean to him would be fun.

"That was when my aunt came back and found us. Next night after the burying, she spoke to my Mam and Da, and said as she was willing that I should come along of her to work here, and learn cookery from her. Da said, 'Don't you want our Addie, then? She's three years older nor Ame, and can make boiled beef with carrots. Ame can't cook an egg, as yet.'

"Aunt Anne said, 'If Adele could make ortolans (A/N: an ortolan is a small pigeon-like bird) in champagne sauce, that'd be another story, but I can teach Amelié to cook, where I doubt as I can teach Addie not to make a face as she's smelled somewhat dead when my son's nigh to her, not without giving her the back of my hand a few times.'

"Da said to her, 'You'll catch more flies with honey nor you will with vinegar, Anne.'—meaning she was speaking too sharp of Addie.

My aunt said back to him, 'Flies is drawn to bullshit as well as honey, Rob. Which would you rather I served you with, vinegar or shit?' But she'd said it—humorous like, and my Da laughed, and said as she could take her pick of us."

"And so it was settled among them?" I inquired.

"Oh, no, cause _then_ my Mam asked, 'What'll she have, for her work?'

"My aunt said, "She'll have her room and board—and the best fare on her plate, at that—her clothes will be bought new for her, as she needs them, and if she minds what I teach her, when she's done, she'll be able to name her wages in any kitchen in Europe.'

"Mam said, 'That's all well and good, but what of her wages now?'

"My aunt said, 'Five francs a month, paid at Christmas and Midsummer, when she can have a week off to come and see you. Remember as you'll have the money saved by not having the keeping of her, too. And whatever presents I might give her, into the bargain.'

"Then Da said 'You've always been careful of your money, Anne, but nobody could ever call you mean with it, nor stingy. I'm in hopes as she'll suit you.', and to me he said, 'Mind you be a good girl, and do all your aunt tells you.' My Mam cried a deal, over my leaving, but Addie was the worst, being sore jealous."

"It doesn't seem as though she had much to be jealous about. You work very hard, don't you?"

"Yes—but I amn't afraid of hard work, and my aunt's been powerful good to me. I got my own room, see, and _three_ pairs of shoes, one for Sunday best, and two others for working days, so's if one pair gets wet, I've got dry to put on. And lots of clothes, none of them hand-me-downs, neither. She gives me pocket money on my afternoons off, and last birthday, she gave me a lady-doll, with a porcelain face and hands, and five books. It's never dull about here, neither. Addie'd like to be here in my place, certain."

"I see. You like it here, then?"

"That I do, sir."

"You love your aunt—and your brother Claude?"

"He isn't _my_ brother, sir, he's my uncle. He's Aunt Anne's brother. Yes, I love them, and I love Erik and Sophie and Minna. I _don't_ like Monsieur Hussenot's granddaughters, though. They laugh at me—cause of my teeth, see? I got the Norbert teeth. Theirs is nice and straight. They'd like to make fun of my aunt, too, and Erik, but they don't dare."

"Does Erik have the Norbert teeth, as well?"

"No, he don't—I mean, they'd make fun of him just because of how he looks. My aunt's not one as you want to anger, sir. It's hard to tell just why, but she—isn't."

"Ah, even the loveliest rose has its thorns. It's good that you are among people you love. What about your uncle—that is, your aunt's husband? What is he like?"

"I don't know, sir, seeing as I've never met him."

"Never? Where is he, that he's not here with his family?"

"In America, sir. He's an archer—no, that isn't the word—he builds houses for people. He's building houses for the Vanderbilts, what are as rich as kings, or so they say."

"You mean an architect, then."

"Yes—that's the word. He writes to her, though. She often gets letters from him, one a month, at least. She don't talk about him much."

"I wonder why that should be."

"I'm sure I don't know, sir—Oh, what's the time?"

I was jolted out of my reverie. "Almost four."

"I've got to run! I hope you liked the limeade and muffins, sir—?"

"Yes, very much. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Good bye!" She dashed off, across the garden. "I hopes you feel better!" she called back over her shoulder.

"Before you ask, I refuse to enter the kitchen house in order to steal any of Madame Anne's correspondence." Nadir drawled, "There is never a single hour of the day or night when that building is unoccupied."

"What about Sunday morning, when they are at worship?" I countered.

"I believe you forget the dog." he said, definitively.

"Could it not be circumvented?"

"Nevertheless, I refuse. There would still be too many people about. Committing a crime in full daylight is unwise."

"Must I do it myself, then?"

"I am your friend, Erik, not your servant."

"Yes—yes, you are. Are you certain you did not know about them—Madame Anne and the boy—beforehand, and then brought me here on purpose?"

"If I had known of them, I would have, but I give you my word that I did not."

"And another thing. If his voice and mine are so similar, why has no one here remarked on it?"

"Because you do not sound like yourself at the moment. Your voice is harsh today compared to how you normally sound. I attribute that to your recent indisposition—after all, we did have to gag you."

"I thank you for that friendly service—But Daroga, I wanted to be free from the morphine because I wanted to stop _craving _things, I wanted to stop _needing _things—and now I am in danger of acquiring yet more desires. Does it have to be so? Why does it have to be so?"

"There is a difference between wanting that which is bad and destructive to you, and needing what is good. I hope that you may come to realize which of the two these new desires of yours may be."

He left the room, and I could only turn over in my mind all that I had learned, and try to make sense of it. Ultimately, it was like trying to translate a passage from another language, and my understanding of it was not yet great enough.

* * *

**Minty-Limeade:**

(This is entirely my own invention, using a technique I know for making very good lemonade)

Twelve limes

Twelve six-inch (or so) sprigs of fresh mint

Four cups sugar

A 2 quart pitcher

A 1 gallon pitcher

A strainer

A large, strong, long handled spoon

Water

Ice

Begin by washing the limes' skins, and removing the store stickers, if any. Then slice the limes, peel and all, into medium-thin slices. Put them in the 2 quart pitcher. Put the springs of mint in the pitcher with the limes. Pour the sugar in on top of the limes and mint. Take the spoon and mash it all together until all the sugar is dampened. This can take a while, not to mention some strength, and if you have friends or relatives handy in the kitchen, it's nice to take turns mashing and stirring.

Let the mixture sit for one hour, and only one hour. Set a timer. Do not forget it. This recipe is very intense because citrus fruits like limes and lemons have essential oils in their peels, which can become too intense if allowed to sit for too long. It will be too bitter.

After an hour, it will be a gooey mess. Fill the pitcher up the rest of the way with cold water, and stir until the goo is dissolved. Strain the contents of the 2 quart pitcher into the gallon pitcher, and, if there is any sugar left in the bottom of the 2 quart, add more water, stir and strain again.

Throw out the used limes and mint. Fill the rest of the gallon pitcher up with ice and cold water. Makes a gallon. Will keep for a week in the fridge—but in hot weather, it won't last nearly that long.

* * *

**A/N:** I am overwhelmed by the positive responses I am getting to this story. Thank you all so much, especially those of you who go into depth and detail in your reviews.

**Erik's Child**: I've always liked to cook, myself. Glad you're enjoying the story.

**Lucia:** Wow, now I have readers on at least 4 continents. I, too, think judging people on what they do for a living, or the background they come from, is a great wrong. Also, I wanted , for a change, to write about a girl who _didn't_ want to be an opera singer—who had her own talent, even genius, and was happy being what she was. Thank you.

**Awoman: **see you in e-mails!

**Allegratree: **I'm enjoying your story, and I will have more to say when and as I get the chance. I sent you a couple of e-mails—might AOL have eaten them?

**Emily:** Here is more, just as requested!

**Sat-Isis:** Have you just joined up? Welcome aboard! You made a batch of muffins! And you liked them! Virtual hugs!

**Lexi:** I like your sense of cute, perverted and twisted as it may be…

**An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin:** You know, you're not doing much to reassure me about you…

**Lost Schizophrenic:** I really don't know what can be said about Madeleine—even her determination, at the end, to mend their relationship is suspect to me. It's way too easy to resolve something like that, and very difficult to break established patterns. Her decision may not have lasted a day.


	9. Afternoon Tea

Afternoon Tea with the de Chagnys

A/N: Just a few things.

1. From chapter 2, when Erik woke up, until he finally goes to bed in a future chapter, everything takes place over the course of a single day. This chapter is no exception.

2. This is not gratuitous Christine-bashing. I try not to do that sort of thing. I promise it will figure in the plot later on.

3. More is going on here than is immediately apparent.

* * *

**Christine:**

It is fashionable to take tea in the British style at four-thirty in the afternoon. We are fashionable. Therefore we take tea at four-thirty in the afternoon, in the British style.

That's logic—one of the many things Erik taught me.

I can see my daughter Rosalie out in the garden. She is taking tea as well, but because she is only three, her guests are dolls and toy animals, her refreshments violets and daisies, with perhaps a cookie.

That reminds me of five years ago, when Raoul and I would have our little tea parties in my dressing room, with three cookies, glasses of port wine—hardly more than a drop each—and a bouquet of violets.

How happy we were then! I wish I could still be happy like that—simply, uncomplicatedly happy. I wish I could still make a whole meal of one cookie and a drop of port.

My guests are all friends of ours, except that they are not my friends. I can see them giving me sideways glances. They are looking at me, and the plate of little tea sandwiches I have in front of me. I haven't touched them—yet.

Then they retreat into the corners of the room, where they whisper about me to each other.

Friends don't do that.

The problem is that I have grown fat.

If only I could have another child! Then it wouldn't matter if I were fat. If I were pregnant, nobody would care if I were fat. It's the only time in a woman's life when she's allowed to be fat.

All of my life, I've struggled with my weight. I've always feared becoming that living joke, the obese opera singer. The fat lady who sings.

Except that I don't even have that any more. I no longer sing professionally. Or even for friends. I only sing with and for Rosalie, when I give her lessons and guide her little hands over the keys of the piano.

She doesn't care how I look. I am her mother, and to her I am beautiful. She loves me.

I love her—so much that it is acutely painful.

How I wish I could be out there in the garden with her right now, instead of here!

The sandwiches look utterly delicious. There are at least half a dozen different kinds, each one no bigger than an American silver dollar. Their fillings peek out around the edges, teasing me, tempting me to eat.

But my 'friends' are watching.

My friends! I have only two friends in this world, and both of them are so far away! At least I will be getting Meg back soon. She's marrying Baron Castelo-Barbazac next month. Then she will be elevated up into my class, or rather, my husband and her husband's class. It will be so good to see her again—but then I'll have to watch her face when she sees how I've changed.

I dread that. Besides, I can't be open with her—not completely.

My only other friend will never be part of my social class, nor, in all likelihood, will I ever see her again. She's lucky—nobody expects a cook to be slender. Who would hire a skinny cook? I wonder if she's run to fat, herself, yet. On Anne it would look good—it would only make her figure more opulent.

I choose one of the sandwiches. Surely I can have one or two—that will show them I can eat moderately, that I can control myself.

I wonder if she's run out of patience with me and my letters, yet. I can't help it—I have to communicate with somebody, someone who knows, someone who understands. She answers me faithfully. Her letters are one of the few sources of comfort that I have, but it takes her weeks to reply, and they're never very long.

I look down at the plate. There are _four_ sandwiches missing. I ate them without paying attention to what I was doing.

Suddenly Raoul is here, smiling at me—I wonder at what it must cost him to smile at me now, it looks so forced—so strained. "Darling—how well you look. It's good to see that you've your normal appetite today."

There is another sandwich missing.

"Yes—I'm very well, thank you." I tell him, as calmly as I can.

"And our golden Rosebud?" he asks. Rosebud is his pet name for her.

"Is out in the garden." I gesture toward the window. "As you can see, she's well, also. I'd rather be there with her—and with you."

"What a charming idea." He smiles again. "Tomorrow, let's have tea with her in the garden—just the three of us."

"You're forgetting her assortment of friends. Princess Olga and Madame Bear cannot be left out of the party." I smile at him. It makes my face hurt. I love him—how deeply I love him still!

He no longer finds me lovely.

"I stand corrected. You and I and Rosalie _and_ her dozen closest toys will have tea together tomorrow."

"I will be delighted to accept your invitation." I make it sound light—I make it sound natural. What a good actress I am!

There are no sandwiches left on the plate. I have eaten them all. I am a wretched, greedy creature. I am all appetite. I cannot control myself…

Why did I let this happen? What did I ever have to recommend myself but my beauty and my voice? Now I no longer sing, and I have destroyed the other, buried it under a mountain of food!

I make some excuse. I leave the room. I go upstairs, to my room, kneel down over my empty chamber pot, and ram my finger down my throat until my stomach heaves and empties, ridding me of all those wretched sandwiches, leaving me clean.

That's not how I usually do it—vomiting is bad for the throat, bad for the teeth and the breath. It leaves me with tooth marks scratched on the back of my hand. Usually I take a preparation of senna, to hasten the food through my system before it can add to my bulk.

But today I've been worse than usual. I have to reprimand myself somehow.

* * *

**A/N:** It doesn't seem quite right to give you several recipes for tea sandwiches after Christine's bout of bulimia. I'll put them in at another time.

I know this is a brief chapter, but it's the length it needed to be.

Now for my readers:

Thank you, **Kei. **I love being accused of brilliance. I do take a bit of trouble over both details and characterization, and it makes me smile when people notice.

**Lucia:** You quoted the exact part that I thought I did best in the whole chapter. Children can be pointlessly, thoughtlessly cruel, but they can also be magnificently kind.

**Sue Raven**: Yes, Anne has had a lot of life experiences. She started a full time job at the age of eleven—not uncommon, when the career was some form of housework.

**Erik's Girlfriend:** You can summarize away. I've found it an interesting challenge writing Anne so that her intelligence shows despite her imperfect use of language. I'm glad I'm succeeding. I, too, own Chaney's POTO. The unmasking scene is perfect and has never been equaled, let alone surpassed. Chaney was an incredibly gifted actor, and I have several other movies of his.

**Sat-Isis:** No! Do not bang your head on the desk! It could damage both your head and the desk!

**SperryDee**: Thank you for nominating me. You made my day—my whole week!

**Allegratree: **Thanks! This is my first attempt to write a mystery. Erik is going to be going through some more changes of mood.

**Emily:** You're welcome, and I have no idea how many chapters this will be. More than 12, anyway.

And hello to **Lostschizophrenic,** as well!


	10. Dinner and Afterwards

**Anne:**

"This soup is fit for an emperor," old Bertrand said.

It was my herb soup he was speaking of, and that's a recipe of mine I know I can take pride in.

"Thank you, M'sieu Bertrand," I told him, "As we haven't an emperor right now, I'll just have to serve it up to us, which I'd rather do any day—No, Erik, don't go feeding Truffle under the table. You and she both knows better. Let her out into the yard, now, won't you?"

"Yes, Mam."

"That's a good lad." I said.

"I don't recall seeing that picture before. Is it new?" Bertrand pointed with his fork.

"The sunflowers? Yes. I got it Saturday." I answered.

"Sunflowers! That's what it's meant to be, then? Looks like it was painted by one of those impressionists. How did you come by it?" he asked.

"It's more how it came by me. On Saturday, like I said, there was a man down to the train station as fainted dead away, while he was waiting on the platform for his next train. Dr. Chilperic said as there wasn't nothing wrong with him but hunger, cause he was half-starved. So they brought him up here, to the kitchen house."

"He was a weedy young fellow," Sophie put in. "Weedy and seedy. He had this fiery shock of hair, and a beard to match. Looked like somebody took a good chunk off his ear with a knife at one time. He had daubs of paint all over him, too."

"That would be the artist, then." nodded Bertrand. "I see it's signed _Vincent_. Was that his first name, or his last?"

"His first name." I said. "He was a Dutchman. His last name was Van Gogh. At first he wouldn't touch a bite, cause he said he couldn't pay, but I pleaded with him till I wore him down. Then he said as he was on his way to see his brother. When he got there, his brother would give him money, and he'd come back and pay me. I told him there wasn't no need for that, but he swore he would, unless he died first. He told me as I should pick one of his paintings he had with him, as surety against his coming back."

"And that's it?"

"Yes. I was looking at them, and I thought: if he don't come back, I might have bought myself a painting for the price of a square meal, so's I'd better pick one as I can live with. I like yellow, and I like sunflowers, so that's the one I chose."

Bertrand squinted at it. "You don't think it looks a bit of a mess?"

"P'rhaps—but I like it."

"So do I," my Erik piped up, being a loyal little chap. "I liked M'sieu Van Gogh. He showed me his paint box and all his paints and his easel and drawings, and next time, he said as he'd look at mine. He said he wants to make a picture of Mam and me together. He said as we'd make an—int'resting subject."

"We'll see about that when he comes back." I had the sad feeling as M'sieu Van Gogh wasn't going to come back. He had the look of a man as is being eaten by fire from the inside out—and then there was the way he'd smiled as he'd said he would pay me back, _unless he died first_.

"You two is awful close-mouthed this evening." I addressed Amelié and Claude. "Is anything the matter?"

"No." "Nothing" they answered.

"Then you'll help me with the dishes and the main course, please? And Minna, can you get the clean plates?"

They stood, and Amelié started collecting the soup plates, while Claude came and helped me with the food.

"We was talking about what happened today while you was out." volunteered Ame.

"And what was that?"

"Well, after dinner," said Claude, "I'm going out to the cottage, to talk to M'sieu Makepeace."

"Why's that?" I asked him. "M'sieu Bertrand, will you have a piece of the salmon? I can't say as the chicken's any too good this evening. I did my best with it, but it was too fatty. So were those all I got this week."

"Oh, a bit of each, my girl. I smelled that chicken all the way up the hill." Bertrand answered, as Claude spoke up.

"M'sieu Hussenot said as that M'sieu Khan said his friend was feeling better—."

Sophie interrupted. "That's good," she said in her cracked voice. "It wouldn't do for him to be dying here, it would look bad. Let him go and do his dying at home."

"I'm glad he's better, too," I told Sophie. "Go on, Claude, do."

"M'sieu Khan said as his friend was better, but his sufferings was cruel, and he needed somewhat to take his mind off'n it, so M'sieu Khan wanted to know if there was anyone working here as could _and_ would go sit and talk to him a space. It didn't have to be about nothing important, but M'sieu Makepeace liked to hear the stories folk could tell about their lives."

"The flavor's as good as ever," Bertrand put in. "But I do see what you meant about that chicken. This bird was cellar-raised, and kept penned up, too, if I'm any judge. Who's your poulterer? Garrulier, isn't it? I'd be glad to have a word with him for you."

"Look, Mam, I've made a country on my plate! These potatoes is the mountains, and that broccoli's the forest, and the gravy, that's a lake. The lake's brown cause it's been raining hard."

"And that's why the trees is so green, on account of all the rain." I said to my son, and to our friend, "M'sieu Bertrand, I'm obliged to you for the offer, but I'd like to try talking to him myself, first. If he still tries to pass second-rate birds off on me, I'll be more nor glad to call on your help, but as I've dealings with him every week, I've got to learn how to get round him."

"You call on me if ever you've the need," said old Bertrand, all stern-like. "Just remember that." He went back to his plate.

"I thank you, sir. Minna, could please you pass the potatoes? Thanks—What about M'sieu Makepeace, Claude?" I asked.

"M'sieu Hussenot went and talked to him this morning, to see as it would be all right, He spent the better part of two hours with him, and after that, he told M'sieu Khan he could ask anyone, so long as they didn't shirk their duties."

"I wish he'd come by to speak to me." I said. "I'd have liked to know what was going on."

"You wasn't here." Claude pointed out. "You and Erik was up in the woods."

"So we were. I suppose it's all right. It's a kindness to comfort a sick man, after all."

"I've already been to talk to him." added Amelié. "I went this afternoon, and I _didn't_ go inside, cause I know better. I sat outside the window."

"Did you, now? What was that like?" and to Erik, I said, "I like your country, but you still got to eat the forest."

"Aww, Mam!"

"If you wants your dessert, you'll eat it."

"All right." He put a bite of broccoli in his mouth.

"He's right nice, I thought." Amelié furrowed her brow. "He listened as if I was all growed up, and didn't talk down to me nor tell me to cut my chattering."

"What did he want you to talk about?" Please, let him have been respectful of her. Amelié was starting to fill out, just like I was at her age, and I remember what men was saying to me back then.

"He started out asking where I was born, and what was my family like, and how I come to work here, and all. Oh, and when I said I was from Alençon, he said as he was from Normandy, too. He was born in Boscherville."

"Where did he say as he was born?" I had to ask.

"Boscherville." she answered.

I know full well other folk have been born in Boscherville, yet still I was spooked by the mention of that place. It's that I'm fearful of being found out. I don't know what I'd do if ever the other Erik Touchet found out about us…

"Oh, and he said something right nice about you, Aunt Anne," said Ame. "He must be well enough to get up and sit, because he must have seen you out the window. He said as you was 'the loveliest rose.'"

Even with all I've seen and done in my life, I heard that and blushed.

"Oho, he must be feeling better!" crowed Bertrand.

"Wonder what you and he'll talk about, when he gets around to talking with you?" cackled Sophie.

I stood up. "I don't know if I will go talk to him, but, if I do, I can tell you I won't be encouraging that kind of talk!"

"But you ought to talk to him!" pleaded Amelié. "You have so much more to tell, and such as'd be of interest, too."

"We'll see. Help me clear, and I'll get out the strawberries and crème Chantilly!"

* * *

**Herb Soup**

4 tablespoons unsalted butter

2 tablespoons fresh tarragon, chopped

2 tablespoons fresh rosemary, chopped

2 tablespoons fresh basil, chopped

2 tablespoons fresh thyme, chopped

2 teaspoons fresh mint, chopped.

(These are just guidelines; if you love dill or some other herb, or can't find a particular herb listed, by all means make substitutions)

6-8 scallions (green onions or spring onions), minced

2 tablespoons flour

8 cups of good quality chicken broth or stock

1 cup fresh or frozen, or canned sweet corn kernels. If canned, drain liquid before using or measuring.

3 egg yolks

1/3 cup sour cream

Salt and pepper

In a soup pot, melt the butter, add all the herbs and the scallions, and sauté over low heat for two minutes. Sprinkle with the flour, stirring constantly, for 2-3 minutes longer. Add the chicken broth. Bring to a boil; add the corn. Simmer for five minutes.

In a bowl, beat the egg yolks and sour cream together until smooth. Add two cups of the hot soup to the bowl and beat until smooth. This is important; if you just dump the raw, cold, egg-and sour cream mixture into the hot soup, it will curdle and become like egg drop soup, instead of the smooth, silky, even texture it should have.

Pour the egg, sour cream, and soup mixture into the soup pot. Taste to see if salt and pepper are needed. Simmer for 3-4 minutes, or until soup is slightly thickened.

Serve with your favorite bread, toasted.

A contradictory soup; delicate yet powerful.

* * *

**Erik:**

I was finishing my letter to Jules. I wrote:

'_In addition to ascertaining the whereabouts of Dr. Etienne Bayre and Mademoiselle Marie Perrault, I would be very glad if you could find out where the Count and Countess de Chagny are now residing, and, if they have children, what their names are, and where and when they were born. To confirm that I expect the impossible of you, I would also like to know if, in the last four or five years, they have withdrawn or paid out any large and unexplained sums—monies not accounted for by any purchases or debts, even by gambling debts. The sum I am interested in would be—'_

I paused. So much to purchase a rundown inn in the middle of nowhere, refurbish it, modernize it, plus more money paid directly to Madame Anne…

'_One hundred thousand francs or more. It may have been broken into smaller payments that would collectively add up to that amount._

_I will close by adding my sincere hope that you, your wife, and your children are all well. I would like to hear how all of you are; I have often thought of you and yours._

_Sincerely, etc.'_

I sealed the envelope, and put it aside for Darius to take to the inn's office in the morning. It might prove impractical to investigate the Chagny finances, but I wanted as much proof as possible. I checked the time, and realized my next visitor would be arriving soon.

In preparation for the arrival of Claude Norbert, I turned off most of the lights, got into bed and drew the curtains. I heard Darius admit him, and a moment later, announce him.

"Evening, M'sieu" His voice broke in the middle of that greeting, short as it was, and I winced. This interview would be tedious if I had to listen to his voice quavering the entire time.

"Good evening, young man." I replied. "Won't you sit down?" He did.

As with M'sieu Hussenot, I could catch a glimpse of Claude Norbert. I had been told he was thirteen. His was a fortunate thirteen, an angelic thirteen. He had dark gold hair that curled at the temples and nape of his neck, blue eyes, a fresh, clear, red-and-white complexion, and the features of a youth drawn by DaVinci. He also had those unfortunate Norbert teeth, and he wore a pair of glasses with thick lenses.

"I know as you like to hear all about folks' lives, but I don't know where to begin."

"You might begin by telling me—," and I paused. I wanted to be subtle. I could not say 'your sister and her son', so I recalled something the girl, Amelié, had touched on. "How the new lace-making techniques have affected your family. I understand the Norberts were notable lace makers, until machine made lace came along."

"All right—it used to be as all the Norberts made lace, by hand. It's damn slow going, doing it like that—begging your pardon, sir."

"For saying 'damn'? It's quite all right. I've been known to say it myself."

"Thank you, sir. Like I said, making lace by hand takes a long time, but it used to be as it paid, at the end. A family of toffs—."

"Toffs?" I interrupted.

"I mean, aristocrats, sir, or folk as is rich enough to afford lace. A family of toffs would have a daughter, see? And when she was born, they'd order lace made for her trousseau and her wedding dress. It'd take years to make it all, but then like as not she wouldn't marry till she's twenty, or so, and by then, the lace would be ready. And we'd get thousands of francs, all in one go. Only it was always a risk."

"Because the girl might die, or not marry, or the family might lose their fortune?" I asked.

"No, because, there's always folk with the money and a growed-up daughter, and then they're glad they can buy it without waiting twenty years. The risk was that the fashions might change, and whatever pattern of lace it was, it might have gone out of style, and then nobody'd want it. Not even when they was the ones who ordered it, twenty years gone by. Then we'd get no pay at all for twenty years of work."

"Did that happen often?"

"Once is often enough—but before that, there was the first Revolution. That was the start of all our troubles."

"Ah, yes. The aristocrats that were not guillotined fled the country, and never came back for their lace." I surmised.

"Right, and wearing lace was looked down on, for being too much like a toff, so nobody else wanted it."

"I imagine that your family must be going on some hard times, as a result."

"That's true, sir. The factories pay more often and pay regular, but not so much nor hand-made lace did. Getting all the money at once was good, too, cause then we could pay for big things all at once, instead of trying to save a few sous here and there. Mind you, making lace is hard on a body. You get round shoulders, near to being a hunch back, your eyes can go bad, and your hands cripple up in the end."

"That sounds terrible. Is that why you and your sister and cousins are here cooking instead of in Alençon, making lace?"

"Yes—at least, that's how it worked out."

"How it worked out? Is there a story behind it?" This, I knew, should lead the conversation in the direction I wanted it to go—to Anne, the phenomenally gifted cook (even if I didn't understand what all the fuss was about), Anne, on account of whom the inn had been purchased, as a setting for a culinary jewel. Anne—and the boy.

* * *

**TBC…**

**A/N:** **Vincent Van Gogh,** one of the most important figures in the history of art, lived from 1853-1890. He only began painting in 1880, and it was not until about 1886 that he began to use color in the style for which he is now known. He sold only one painting in his lifetime, but he is now world-renowned and his paintings sell for millions of dollars.

Deeply troubled by mental and physical illnesses, he was dependant on his brother Theo, an art dealer who believed in him and supported him. Vincent Van Gogh once cut off part of one of his own ears (or possibly had it cut off in a fight with fellow artist Paul Gauguin) and sent it to his ex-girlfriend. He committed suicide in 1890, succumbing at last to his depression and physical agony.

One of my favorite works by Van Gogh is his painting of the bust of a skeleton who is holding a cigarette between his teeth!

**Hello everyone!**

**Ellen**: As to Anne's treatment of people; she is aware of what she's doing, and it does bother her. She tries not to hurt people. She may have some growing and developing as a person to do yet. Besides, if she was perfect, she'd be a Mary-Sue! And studying for the AP and reading Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell are perfectly valid excuses, IMHO. That book takes _forever_!

**Allegratree**: Oh, good, I was aiming for that effect.

**HDKingsbury:** Ah, a new name! Glad to have another enthusiastic reader. I'm enjoying writing this one. I'm very fond of Anne and L'il Erik, and I think it shows.

An omnibus shout-out to: **Lostschizophrenic, Emily, Sue Raven, Pickledishkiller, An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin**, and at the very last moment (but _never_ least) **awoman**!


	11. Claude Norbert's Testimony

(Claude Norbert is continuing his tale.)

"It started when my sister Anne went—went into domestic service—."

There was something he was not saying. Went into domestic service, yes, but that slip—where else did she go?

"Our Aunt Clarisse, one of Da's younger sisters, was head housemaid in the Comte de la Fere's country residence—that's down near Lyons, you know, where they have the silk factories."

Again, Lyons came into the equation. I remembered that Monsieur Hussenot had spoken of a law firm near Lyons which handled matters for the unknown owner. A trip to Lyons might be necessary—after hours, with my set of lock picks.

Claude had not paused in his narrative. "So when our Mam and Da thought it would be best that Anne were to—were to find a position somewheres—."

He had repeated himself again. There was something about the reason Anne went away—no, was **sent** away—that he did not want to tell.

"Tell me—so I can get a better idea of your background—if one of your sisters were 'in trouble', and had no prospect of marrying the man, what would your family do?"

"Oh, that's easy. It happened already—at least once as I know of. One of my sisters—not Anne—isn't really my sister. She's my niece—and she's older nor I am, too. When one of our oldest sisters found herself increasing, and no husband in sight, our Mam and Da just took and passed her daughter off as one of us. Mind you, I'm not saying which, as she's married now, and has five children in wedlock. My sister, not my niece."

"That's quite a compassionate solution. Was it a terrible disgrace?"

"I don't think so, but as I wasn't born yet, I can't say. Anne might know. She was—six, then, I think."

"I'll remember that—But I interrupted you. You were talking about how Anne found a place." I reminded him.

"Right. Da wrote to Aunt Clarisse, and she got Anne a place as junior housemaid there. That was where she started, but the cook there took a liking to her."

"I see. How old was she—your sister?"

"Eleven."

Eleven. What sort of disgrace can an eleven year old girl have gotten into?

"Is it usual in your family, to go into service so young and so far away from home?" I probed.

"You might say as it is, now. But there's a world of difference between coming here to work for Anne and going among those as is mostly strangers, as she did. Anyways, the cook there, I forget her name, taught Anne all she knew.

"Now, our family, we like our food as much as anybody, but our Mam was just a good plain cook, like most of my sisters is, too. Their food is good, but nobody'd go out of the way for it. But Anne can take the same ingredients and make the same dish, in the same way, and have folk licking the plates clean and swearing they never tasted nothing half so good. She can do anything as fancy as a toff could ask for, too."

"What's the secret?" I asked.

"I'm only just starting to figure that out, sir, and that's after being here, helping, a year and a half. Then, after Anne got married, and her husband went off to America, and she had her baby, she found her job here."

Ah. An opening. "I have to say I don't think much of this absent husband of hers. What sort of man goes to America and leaves his wife—his expectant wife, no less—for several years? And an architect who works for the Vanderbilts should have been able to provide well enough that his wife should not have to work for her living—let alone his son's living as well."

"She didn't _have_ to go to work," he answered, proudly. "He did right by her. She _wanted_ to work. She says as it's better working nor it is sitting on her arse all day, alone but for the lad. He's a right handful, and no mistake, but he's better off for having a mother what isn't clammed in all day, trying to be a toff and not managing it. As to her husband going off to America—she says as neither of them knew as she was expecting. I don't know what sort of man he is, seeing as I never met him, but Anne won't hear a word against him. She thinks as highly of him as she does of—of spring coming after winter."

"High praise indeed." I said, wryly.

"And she's a good woman." Claude continued in her defense. "There's nobody about as could even whisper a word against her virtue—so keep that in mind, sir, should it be as she might come by to talk with you as I am now."

"I don't doubt it," I soothed him. "Forgive me if I have seemed to imply otherwise. It's merely that she seems to have been abandoned—and left with a child who would excite comment anywhere in the world. I understand he takes after his father?"

"So she says, sir."

"Remarkable. She met her husband in Lyons, I suppose?"

"Yes. They was married in the Registry Office there. I've seen the certificate."

A trip to Lyons was definitely in order. A marriage certificate is only a piece of paper, unless it has been duly registered and recorded by the proper authorities. I had to find the record of that marriage—or, rather, the lack thereof.

"Could it be that in marrying your sister, he felt he had married beneath him? Might that be the reason for his departure and his prolonged absence? Architects do not often marry cooks."

"Sir, a man what looks like my nephew Erik ought to thank God every night that any woman, let alone my sister, would agree to marry with him. Anne isn't the prettiest in our family, but she comes close. She's got a tidy figure, she's good-natured and clever besides. I don't think as he'd be that stupid."

He had an excellent point, but it was off the track of my questioning.

"Did anyone in your family—other than Anne, of course—ever meet her husband?"

"No." Claude said, thoughtfully. "Nobody knew a thing about her getting married—until afterward."

"After she was married?"

"No—after she had the baby."

"Isn't that rather unusual?" I inquired.

"Ye-ess," he drew out the word, "but Anne—our family's never been one for doing much letter writing."

He had made another slip. 'But Anne.' _What _about Anne? What was he concealing?

"Sir, I don't feel as I should be talking so much about what's rightly Anne's concern. If you want as I should keep talking to you, I'd take it kindly if you asked me about something else." He would have sounded much more impressive had his voice not broken twice while he said it.

Damn. I had made him suspicious. "Certainly. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uneasy." From there I led him to talk more about himself, and about his life as the youngest of the Norberts. He told me about the scrubby patch of woods he played in as a child, and the big, empty snail shells he searched for, whorled in white and pink, to play a game he called 'conkers.'

I asked him questions from time to time, and he gradually shed the tension that had come over him when I probed too deeply into Anne's secrets.

I heard about the two siblings who followed him into the world, only to leave it again a few brief weeks later. He spoke heavily of the sudden death of his mother, who had lain down one afternoon for a nap from which she never awoke. It was heart failure. She had not yet turned fifty. I sympathized.

Once he mentioned the death of their mother, I knew he had worked his way back around to the objects of my interest once more.

"Anne got home about noon on the day afore the funeral." he explained. "She brought two big baskets of food with her—a great big ham, a smoked turkey, pâté de foie gras, and a big dish of cassoulet. That cassoulet was the first time as I'd ever known food could be like that—more than somewhat to fill your belly. It was more than good…

"We'd been eating the last of the coq-au-vin our Mam made before she died. It was a sad thing when that was gone, it was like she died all over again, cause we was getting further and further away from when she was alive. Then Anne came with her dish, and—I just felt better, for eating it. She brought Erik along of her, of course."

"What sort of welcome did they get?"

"It should have been the same as anybody—but for the boy. The way as folks talked about the boy, when Anne wasn't right there to hear them..."

"Yet they put up with him."

"Our Da put his foot down, and said as she was a good daughter, what had turned out to be a credit to them, and a grandson was a grandson, whatsoever he looked like and they was both welcome under his roof—and if they didn't like it, them as said so could leave."

"A powerful argument." I commented.

"Anne was there—she knew how folk was talking, and she was creeping around like she was trying to make herself small, until then. She started to cry, and Da gave her a hug, and…" He talked about other relatives, and how they took the death.

Eventually I prompted him with the question, "How did Anne come to choose you, out of all the other young ones who weren't settled into a profession as yet?"

He snickered. "It wasn't funny when it happened, but when we was at the funeral service that next morning, Anne and Erik and me was all sitting in the same pew. I was on the end, and Erik was between me and Anne. Halfway through, he starts fidgeting something awful.

"Anne says to him, 'Sit still, love.', but after another minute, he's doing it again, and then he says, loud enough so's everyone can hear him, 'Mam, I've got to widdle _right now!'_ Anne ducks her head and puts her hands over her face, then fast grabs for Erik's hand, but I picked him up and said, 'I know where to take him.' Because the church was new, and she'd never been there before. So he and I went out the side door, took care of things, and after that, he was as good as gold.

"The only problem is, she explained to him, afterwards, that you don't talk about having to go when you're out, or when you're in company. And he_ listened_. So now, if he has to go when we're out somewheres with him, he won't say nothing until his bladder's bursting, and even then he only whispers it. So you have to find a place damn quick!"

"That must be—inconvenient."

"And how!" he agreed with me. "Anyways, after the burying, Anne searched me out, and said, 'Claude, I've got to go back to the inn tomorrow, cause they don't have a cook while I'm gone. I need help in the kitchen, there. I've asked Da if he can spare you, and he's willing if you is.'

"'What, that he _and_ I should go and work along of you?'

"'No, that_ you_ should. I'd hoped to take a couple more of you younger ones. Lord knows there are few enough prospects for you here, but you and Rob's daughter, Amelié is the only ones as have treated my little lad decent in spite of how he looks. I thank you for that.'

"'I don't know as you ought to. I can't hardly tell what he looks like. I'm near as blind as a bat, and we've no money to get me eye-glasses.'

"She was struck dumb for a space, and then she said, 'Why don't nobody tell me these things? If I find you an eye-doctor and get you some glasses, do you think you could still see your way clear to treating him decent?'

" 'Don't see as I shouldn't.' I said, and that was how we worked it out."

"Do you like it here as much as Amelié does?"

"I don't know about that. It's all right." he said, diffidently. "I've got to be going, sir. It's getting late, and I got to start the dough for tomorrow morning's rolls."

"One last thing before you goes." I decided to risk another question. "Why was Anne sent away when she was eleven?"

"I—it's complicated, like." He paused. I waited. Would he answer, or refuse?

"I was only four. Mam had just had what was to be her last baby, and it was a girl. They called her Diane. I remember— as she was sickly to begin with. She looked like five pounds of meat what's been ground for sausage. Anne was only just old enough to watch her. Diane was the first baby as Anne was trusted to watch all on her own."

"Did the baby get hurt, because Anne was too young or too careless?"

"No. She died, while Anne was looking after her. They do, sometimes, when they're real small. They just stop breathing in their sleep, and die. I never heard as Diane died of anything _but _that."

"Did your parents blame Anne? Or did a doctor blame her?"

"No. Nobody blamed her at all. But Anne—she took it hard. Real hard. She went into hysterics. They got her calmed down—but then the priest came, and she had another fit. I remember it. She was carrying on something awful. Kicked over the what-not table and broke everything on it."

"No one blamed Anne—except for Anne." I said, slowly. This was significant.

"That may be how it was, sir." He was respectful. "After that, she wasn't never the same. The doctor said as it was a morbid melancholy. So they sent her away, thinking as if she was away from all that reminded her, it would be the best for her. Good night, sir. I hope you're on the mend."

"Good night." I said. My mind was hard at work.

Claude Norbert had been a veritable font of information, but the truth still failed to coalesce for me.

Might Anne have done something—something no one detected, or suspected, which killed that baby? On purpose, by accident, or by mistake? Or was she innocent—but imagined herself to be guilty? How did that fit in with what I already knew of her?

It did not. There was much more to Anne than was readily apparent.

Nadir had left me to conduct this interview on my own, so he was not there to question what I did next. I went into my trunk and found one of my black masks. I was already planning to go out for a walk after it got dark. If that walk happened to take me by the kitchen house, I had seen a sturdy oak tree that grew next to it, with limbs that looked eminently climbable.

I was going to do something rather unwise.

Well, it would not be for the first time.

* * *

**Cassoulet for comfort:**

Cassoulet is a quintessentially French dish, and the one common denominator in it is that it must be made with white beans and several different kinds of meat, including sausage. It is an incredibly rich dish, and well suited for the depths of winter. This version does not call for pig's tails or goose fat or any other of the exotic regional specialties, and it is somewhat simpler than most.

1 lb dried small white beans

2 stalks celery, with leaves, chopped

2 bay leaves

2 sprigs of parsley

¼ lb bacon, cut into 1 inch lengths

olive oil, if needed

3 whole chicken breasts, skinned and boned—or buy 6 skinless, boneless chicken breast halves, cut into 1 inch chunks.

1 pork tenderloin (unseasoned), cut into chunks about an inch square

1 large onion, peeled and chopped

1 cup chopped carrots

1 cup chopped celery

6 cloves garlic, minced

2 cans good quality chicken broth

1 bay leaf

1 28 oz can diced tomatoes, undrained. Fire-roasted are the best, if your store sells them

1 teaspoon dried thyme

1 kielbasa 'ring', cut into 1 inch slices.

½ cup parsley, chopped

salt and pepper

Begin the day before you want to eat it, and pour the dry beans into a large pot. Pick them over carefully to be sure there are no pebbles or chunks of dried mud among the beans, which has been known to happen. When you are reasonably sure everything in the pot is indeed a bean, fill the pot with water, and let it sit overnight.

Two and a half hours before you want to eat, drain the water off the beans—it may be foamy or murky, which is normal—and rinse them thoroughly. Drain them again, return them to the pot, and fill it with enough water to cover the beans to a depth of about 2 inches. Add the celery, the two bay leaves and the two sprigs of parsley. Bring to a boil and simmer for half an hour.

In the meantime, fry the bacon in the bottom of a very large pot until brown. Remove the bacon, leaving the grease in the pan. Brown the chicken and the pork tenderloin in the bacon grease. When done, remove to a bowl, and set aside.

If the pot has no grease left, add a couple of tablespoons of olive oil, and sauté the onion, carrots, celery, and garlic for about 8 to 10 minutes.

Return the meat to the pot. Transfer the cooked beans to the pot, discarding the bay leaves. Add the chicken broth, the bay leaf, the tomatoes, and the thyme.

Simmer for an hour over very low heat, stirring occasionally.

Add the kielbasa. Simmer for another half an hour, stirring occasionally.

Add the parsley. Test to see if pepper and salt are needed. Serve and eat.

* * *

**A/N:** Wow, thirteen reviews for Chapter 10 alone. I must be doing something right… 

**Erik for President:** Anne wouldn't let little Erik go by himself to talk to the mysterious man in the cottage, but he does have the run of the property. You'll have to wait and see.

**An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin:** Anne and Erik senior won't be meeting for at least three chapters, but as he's taking up stalking again, he'll be getting much closer to both mother and son.

**Thornwitch:** I do plan to bring Marie Perrault into the story, but not in either profession you mentioned. She won't be appearing for a while, however.

**Bella:** Another new reader! Thanks. I'm trying to keep Erik Sr. as true to himself as I can.

**Pickledishkiller**: I hope that's a scream of anticipation and suspense, and not excruciating boredom.

**Sat-Isis:** The first meeting will be interesting, I promise—but in the meantime, he'll be going crazy—or, rather, crazier.

And, as always, a thank you to my other readers and reviewers: **HDKingsbury, Emily, Allegratree, Lexi, Julia (awoman), Sue Raven, and Erik's Girlfriend.** I'm so glad you're there.


	12. Cookies and Milk

**Anne:**

I was ready to get into my bath, when that I heard Sophie give a great yelp. "Oww! I'm bleeding! I've cut my toe!"

And so she had. She'd been cutting her toenails, and snipped off a bit of her flesh into the bargain. When I got to her, she was dripping blood all over the floor. She being old as she is, her blood is thin and don't clot so good anymore, so she went on bleeding whiles I got the iodine and gauze for bandaging. I had to hunt out a spider's web to help it stop afore I could wrap it.

By that time, of course Minna and Erik and Amelié was all of them standing in the doorway crammed in against each other, their eyes grown as big as goose eggs.

"There isn't nobody dying here." I told them. "You done worse to yourself when you rolled down that hill back in March, Ame, and took all the skin off'n your hand. Go on, now—unless you wants to mop the floor for me." That cleared them out.

Just once, I'd like to have a day as was just plain ordinary—a day where all went as smooth as cream being poured out of a pitcher. I don't suppose as that'll happen in this world, though.

My bathwater was still warm when that I got back to it, and I had a fresh cake of scented soap to wash myself with. Lying back in the bath was a pleasure. In my sitting room above, I could hear my boy playing on his fiddle, something soft and sweet. Could be as it was of his own devising; he's starting, now, to make up his own tunes. I heard Truffle's claws go clicky-clacky as she crossed the floor, and Ame saying to Minna, "And then you takes your yarn over, like this—" as she showed Minna how to crochet. It would take a while, and a lot of repeating, but Minna would learn.

Sophie banged on the wall. "Good night!" she called, which was as well, for I was near to drifting off in the tub, and that wouldn't do. So I washed my hair out, drained the tub and wiped it good, cause if I didn't nobody else was going to, and took myself back upstairs.

Minna had already gone up. Amelié was putting away the yarns, and she bid me good night before she followed Minna. "Good night, my dears!" I called up to them.

"And now it's you and me, dearheart." I told my son. "Time to get yourself into your nightclothes."

He was working on a new block of wood. "But I don't want to go to bed yet, Mam," he said, as his pocket knife peeled a long curl off the block.

"What's this one going to be, love?" I knelt beside him.

"A horse." he answered.

"Ever think of making an ark, like Noah's, to keep all your animals it? But the wood and the knife'll still be there tomorrow. It's time for bed."

"Nooooo," he gave me in reply.

I leaned over, cupped my hand around his ear, and whispered to him, "Yessss, my heart Time for bed."

"But Mam, " and he put on his face as would shame an angel for innocence, and said the words as would get me: "I'm _hungry_."

That's one appeal as will always work. He knows it, and I knows he knows it, but unless he's just been rubbing his middle and saying his belly's so full it aches, I can't prove he isn't.

Anyhow, I can't bear to be around someone as is hungry, and not feed them. And that was how I wound up here, though, wasn't it? Because _he_ was hungry…

"I better feed you then, hadn't I? How about some more broccoli?"

He pouts. "Guess you isn't that hungry, then…"

"My—my broccoli drawer in my stomach is all full up. It's my other drawers as is empty," he invents.

"Your other drawers. Like your cookies and milk drawers, maybe?"

Angel-face again. "Yes?" he asks, hopeful, like.

"What about a piece of the almond shortbread and a cup of milk?"

"Please, Maman!" He jumps up and gives me a hug. "You smells good, Mam."

"Thank you, love."

So it's back down to the kitchen with us, where I cut us some shortbread. For him, it's milk out of the mug from England what's shaped like a tree stump and has a rabbit in a waistcoat for a handle, and for me, it's linden tisane out of my everyday china.

After a sip and a bite, "Mam?" he asks me, sounding so timorous that I knows it's going to be one of _those_ sorts of questions.

"Yes, dearheart?"

"I—I knows I'm ugly cause my Da was ugly, but why does folk have to be so—so—."

"So hurtful about it?"

He nods.

"Well—you know as how every story has a hero, right?"

He nods again.

"Everybody that lives is the hero of his own story, and outside of them and maybe their family, nobody else isn't really real to them...Do you understand?"

He shakes his head no.

"No. Then— Most folk don't think real hard or real deep about what comes out of their mouths, so what they says is gen'rally some damn fool thing. And when they look at a person, they don't think hard or deep about that person. Anything that stands out as marks that person as being different than they is, they seize on. And they make up all kind of nonsense in their heads about it. Like with me, now. I got a big bosom."

"You do? But Madame Rowse's is much bigger. She's got like a shelf in front—"

"That's enough about Madame Rowse's bosom!" It could be as I picked the wrong example, but I was started now. "Big for the rest of me, I mean, and that's what makes _me_ different. Having a big bosom isn't a comfortable thing, cause if I don't wear a special made corset, I get back-aches something terrible. Folk look at me, and they look at my bosom, and they think as having a big bosom means I'm stupid, or that I'm—not a nice woman, or that I want to—to kiss them. They says hurtful things to me, too, about it, and sometimes they tries to do hurtful things, too."

"Like what?"

"Never you mind. Anyhow, being ugly'll mean less and less as you get older. Everybody gets ugly and funny-looking, if they only lives long enough. And here's a secret—."

"Yes, Mam?" He leans over, eager to hear it.

"Is Sophie ugly?"

"No! Sophie's beautiful! Like you is, Mam!"

"Is M'sieu Bertrand funny-looking?"

"No!"

"Somebody as didn't know them would look at Sophie and say: 'Look at that ugly old woman. She don't got all her teeth, and her skin looks like dried mud for all the cracks in it.'"

"No!" he says again.

"They'd look at M'sieu Bertrand and say, 'Look at that bandy-legged oldster. He's got a face like a sheep what's eaten a lemon.' It's cause we love them that they're beautiful. The people you love is beautiful. So, to me…"

I can feel the tears prickle at my eyes, as I lean over to take his face between my hands. "There isn't a finer looking nor handsomer boy in all the world. There isn't an angel in heaven as has a nicer face. I wouldn't have you be no different nor what you are, cause then you wouldn't be you—except that other folk wouldn't be so cruel to you, then."

"Don't cry, Mam. Please don't cry!" The next thing I know is, he's in my lap and we're both crying, him into my shoulder and me into his hair.

"Look at the two of us." I say, after a while. "Sad cause we're so happy. Aren't we a pair of sillies?"

He gulps and nods.

"Done with your snack, love?"

"Y-yes, Mam."

"That's good, cause I got something new for us to read tonight. Something long—and not a story, neither. Something real."

* * *

**Almond Shortbread:**

Packaged shortbread is uniformly unsatisfactory, even the expensive imported kind in the red plaid packages. It's like eating a small piece of sugared cement. _Fresh_ shortbread, on the other hand, is wonderful—beautifully textured, with a delicate crumbliness to it.

1 ¾ cups unsifted, bleached all-purpose flour

1/3 cup ground almonds

1 tablespoon cornstarch

¼ teaspoon baking powder

1/8 teaspoon salt

½ lb unsalted butter (two sticks), softened. NOT melted. Let them sit on the counter for a couple of hours before you plan to make this.

½ cup plus 2 tablespoons powdered, or confectioner's sugar.

1 teaspoon almond extract

½ teaspoon vanilla extract

For the topping:

1 ½ tablespoons granulated sugar

1 tablespoon ground almonds.

For the ground almonds: Grind 1 cup of skinless slivered almonds in a food processor with one teaspoon of sugar. Store the excess in an airtight container for the next time you make this. You _will_ want to make this again.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Spray a 10 x 10 x 2 inch square baking pan with nonstick cooking spray.

Combine the flour, ground almonds, cornstarch, baking powder and salt in a bowl. Stir thoroughly.

Beat the butter with an electric mixer, in a large bowl, for 3 minutes or until uniformly soft and creamy. Add the confectioner's sugar and beat for another minute. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a spatula every now and then. Add the almond and vanilla extracts. On low speed, mix in the flour mixture, until they are only just combined.

Press the dough evenly into the prepared pan. Prick the dough with a fork in several places.

Combine the topping ingredients in a small bowl. Sprinkle evenly over the top.

Bake at 350 degrees for 35 minutes, or until the shortbread is uniformly tan in color. Remove to a rack. Cut into squares while still warm. Store in an airtight container, if there is any left to store.

This is a perfect dessert to serve to people who say they don't like dessert because it's too sweet. Wonderful with milk, coffee or tea.

* * *

**A/N: Fourteen reviews this time!**

**Allegratree and Julia (awoman):** Your points are well taken. I will go back and clean up the last chapter so that my treatment of Erik's thoughts are consistent with my prior style. Thank you.

**Bella;** Please do print them out! If you make them and enjoy them, let me know. I'd love to hear about it.

**Nota Lone**: Fun name! Yes, morphine was around. Glad you're enjoying the fic. Stick around—lots more to come.

**Lucia:** Another update! I'm not exactly small myself—but then I'm the one with all these recipes on hand, so who wouldn't have guessed that? I hope you enjoy this chapter.

**Dawn:** Thank you. I read a lot of phics—and after about the 180th time I encountered an OW character who was indistinguishable from the previous 179 girls, something snapped, and I sat down to begin this.

Woohoo! 100 reviews! (111 by the time of this writing) Thanks, **Flamingices**, and thanks to all the others who have gotten me here!

**Sat-Isis:** You know—if you're too smart, I'll have to keep changing what I planned to write, just to keep you guessing—but that scenario wasn't in the cards. Or—was it?

**Sue Raven:** He's not quite well enough—you'll see, next chapter!

Let me not neglect my other pals: **Pickledishkiller, Chantal, Emily, and Erik For President.**

Tell me, **Erik for President**, are you the X-men fan Misty Breyer shouted out to in a chapter of Phantom Companions?


	13. A Midnight Snack

**Erik:**

The potager garden was a different place by night than it was by day; a dream-like world shaded in silvery grays and subtle gradations of blue. Of course, walking through it was much different than observing it through my window. I had thought the walkways were made of slate, and instead, they turned out to be gravel, which crunched underfoot. I could hear the faint rustlings and whirrings made by animals and insects going about their business.

I surprised a rabbit among the lettuces; it bounded out of the potager and into the little orchard. A barn owl immediately swept out of a fruit tree, like a pale night flower unfolding, and seized it. The rabbit gave one sharp, short cry as its spine broke. I felt a stab of pity for the rabbit even as the sheer grace and beauty of the owl made my heart thrill in admiration.

I was glad that I shut Ayesha in my room at night, for although she hated it, I could bear her yowls far better than I could bear her disappearance. She had lived almost all of her life under an Opera house; she was unprepared and unaware of the dangers that lay in wait for her, out here. To that owl, she would be no more than another meal.

I left the garden paths behind and stepped out onto the hard-packed earth of the kitchen house's yard. What did I hope to accomplish by this little adventure? I certainly wasn't going to wrest any facts out of anyone. I just wanted to watch them together—to listen to them, when they were alone, to find out how she behaved toward him when no one was looking. I would glean no facts, but I might harvest a great deal of truth.

The wisdom of this course of action was highly dubious. Why had I thought I was up to this? I had been made shaky-legged by the simple walk from the cottage to the foot of this tree. I told myself that the faint trembling of my limbs was due to the lingering symptoms of my withdrawal, and not to any real bodily inanition. I was suffering from lack of exercise, and climbing this tree could only do me good. As I reached for the handiest tree branch, I could not deny that I was not feeling my best.

Something inside me told me to stop; this was wrong on so many levels. I didn't listen to it.

I pulled myself up, limb by painful limb, from branch to branch, up the tree. Unwise as it was, I would persevere. About a century later, I reached a fork that was convenient to a second-story window, and maneuvered my pathetic corpse around to brace myself in place, making myself as comfortable as I could. According to Nadir, this was the level where Anne and the boy slept.

I was looking directly into the sitting room. It was well-lit. Electric lights in amber sconces dispelled the night. The first thing that caught my attention was the dog. She lay in the center of the room, stretched out to her full length, her head between her front paws, flat on the floor. Her eyes were fixed worshipfully on a particular doorway.

She was a big animal—heavily muscled and beautifully molded. I saw her sides inflate and heave out a sigh; she thumped her tail in a desultory fashion.

This was a creature to avoid. She looked swift—she looked strong—she looked as if she weighed more than I did.

I took in the rest of the room. The walls were painted a soft yellow. There were two armchairs directly in front of my window, with a work table in between. I could see a basket of yarns jutting out from under the corner of it. Further down the room to the right, a settee and a curio cabinet. To the left, a pair of bookshelves, crammed full of books. That was good; perhaps they were not complete illiterates after all. On the other hand, all the books could very well be cookbooks.

On one wall, I could see several picture frames; a colored print of a Raphael, a particularly gentle image of a joyful Christ Child and tender Mary, some photographs, most likely of various Norberts, and a lady's fan, spread wide and mounted under glass. Although I couldn't see it very clearly, I could tell that it was made of fine lace. Alençon, no doubt, and no doubt also the work of a Norbert, perhaps even Anne herself.

There were also several large pen-and-ink renderings, of various subjects, tacked to the walls without frames. I wondered about them, until I noticed the signature—a single, familiar name—Erik.

He was like me, then, inside as well as out. The area near the bookshelves was full of toys and other items that obviously belonged to him—a child-sized chair, a small violin case—.

The dog suddenly raised her head, her cropped ears pricked up, and her tail beat a rapid tattoo on the floor. As she scrambled to her feet, I could see the reason why; the sun and moon of her particular firmament were coming.

The boy was first. Skipping. Stamping, and softly chanting, "A new book! A new book!" "Hush, love." said Anne, following him. She was dressed in a thick red bathrobe, and her head was swathed in a towel. "Into your nightshirt, now, and be sure to wash your face and brush your teeth real good."

He disappeared into one of the doors in the wall opposite my vantage point; she went into another, and turned on a light. It was her bedroom, I could see the end of the bedstead, a chest of drawers, a table bearing a lamp with a pressed-glass shade. The walls were a warm shade that fell between peach and rose, and I watched her shadow play across them as she moved around, somewhere out of my sight.

I glanced at the other doorway, his doorway. He had not bothered to turn on a light; I wondered if he had my night-sight. A movement in her room drew my attention again.

She had shed the robe and towel, and stood in front of her chest of drawers. A loose nightgown covered her from her neck to her feet, leaving her arms bare, and her back was toward me.

As I watched, she took a brush and attended to her damp hair. Is there anything so graceful and lovely as a woman combing out her long hair? The fabric of her gown was thin, and the light filtered through it, hinting subtly at her shape beneath.

There was one advantage to my weakened state; what might have been painful to contemplate was instead merely a faint, sad regret. In any case, I knew enough now to know that the anticipation was more significant than the actual achievement.

The boy emerged from his room, and went in the central door, which, once he flicked on the light, was revealed to be a washroom. He stepped up on a stool before the sink, took soap and washcloth, and worked a lather up on his face. I could see his profile. Once he had rinsed, I saw him do something extraordinary—he made an odd series of gestures and facial contortions, pulling on his eyelids and turning his lower lip inside out.

I suddenly realized that he was looking in a mirror—making faces at himself, in fact.

I wanted to laugh at that. I wanted to cry, as well.

Leaving off making faces at himself, he glanced at the door—to see if his mother was coming?—opened a tin, wetted one finger, and dipped it in. Then he rubbed it on his upper gum.

Anne joined him in the washroom. "You done?"

"Uh-huh."

"You brush your teeth?"

"Yes, Mam."

The little scamp! He had only rubbed a bit of tooth powder on his gum, so his breath would smell of it!

"Give me a smile then, dearheart." She tipped his chin up with a finger.

He grinned.

"All right. Now you'll brush your teeth proper with me right here watching."

"But, Mam!" he began.

"But me no buts, my lad. Your teeth is still yellow, and I can see a strawberry seed as is stuck right up here." She pointed to a spot in her own mouth. "Now, brush."

He wetted his toothbrush, loaded it with powder, and brushed, while she stood there with her arms crossed.

"That's fine. You can spit."

He did. "That's my good boy." She reached out and ruffled his hair. "There isn't a trick I don't know, see? I even come up with some of them. Have you gone yet?"

"No."

"Then you best do it now." She left the washroom, shutting the door behind her, and then went into his room.

When she turned on the light, she revealed walls hung with cheerful wallpaper, and a single bed, covered with a knitted spread that was diagonally striped in blue and red. She turned down the covers, then bent and picked his clothes off the floor. She turned them right-side out, and began going through the pockets. Something she found in one of them made her grimace; she opened a window and tossed whatever it was out into the night.

"What have I told you about bringing home toads and suchlike in your pockets?" she called.

"What, Mam?" was the muffled reply.

"Never mind." she said.

"Can't hear you, Mam!"

After she put the garments away, she came right over to the work table, the one in front of my window, and took a book from a table drawer. She was no more than six feet away from me.

Suddenly she looked directly into my eyes, and smiled playfully.

"Hallo, Moggy." she said. "What're you doing there?"

I started, and nearly fell out of the tree. Moggy—that was another word for a cat. I breathed a sigh of relief. She had seen my eyes, which reflect light as no other human's do—and taken me for a black cat.

I forced myself to relax again. She had turned her attention to the book/ Frowning in concentration at a page in it while she petted the dog, she then crossed the room to take a thicker volume from one of the bookshelves.

The boy came out of the washroom, and together they entered his room. The dog padded after them.

"Into bed now," she directed him, and he climbed in, sitting up against the headboard. She pulled the covers up around his waist, and sat beside him.

"Louis Pasteur—His Life and Achievements" she began.

"Who's he?"

"Well, you know as how all the milk we get is _pasteurized? _That means it's had done to it what Dr. Pasteur come up with to make it safe to drink, so folk don't get sick. He's discovered and invented lots more nor that, like how to stop folk what get bit by a mad dog from getting rabies and dying, and that didn't happen too long ago, neither. He's a man what was born with more gifts and brains nor what's usually given to men, and he's used them to do a lot of good in this world. _He_ liked drawing when he was a boy, just like you do, and he was real good at it, too."

"Ohhh! And he's real?"

"Yes. He's still alive, but he's old now. Let's start at the beginning…" She opened the book.

The thicker volume she took from the shelves turned out to be a dictionary. When they encountered an unfamiliar word or concept, they looked it up.

As I watched and listened to them, it seemed to me as if I were watching a scene in a play. There sat Penelope and Telemachus, mother and son, waiting for Odysseus to return to them.

Surely he would return soon; perhaps even while I watched. Even though I knew what I did, and knew it was not possible, still I watched and awaited the sound of a foot on the stairs. Then the figure of a man would fill the doorway, a tall man, dressed in a cloak, stained and creased from much travel, wearing a hat, and yes, a mask.

Their heads would turn. I could almost hear their startled gasps, as he asked, tentatively, "Anne, my darling?"

He would sweep off the hat and mask then, and drop them, heedless of where they fell, as his wife flew to him.

The boy would get up to watch, hesitating, as his parents embraced, her arms around his neck, his around her body. After a kiss that was far too brief, she would bury her face in his neck, and mumble something only he could hear.

"I know," would be his reply. "I've missed you, too. But I am back now, and I will never leave you again. Either of you…"

"Da?" the boy would ask, his head tipped to the side.

"Yes," Anne would tell him. "It's him. He's come home." And she would draw the boy forward to join them.

I wanted to see that scenario unfold before me. I wanted to press my hands and my forehead against the glass until it melted and I melted and reformed on the other side, my vision blurring and tilting and changing, and then I would be there in the flesh and bone and person of that man, that husband, that father.

I wanted to be there, bending over that little bed, as she closed the book, despite his pleas of "More! More!"

"Tomorrow night." she assured him. "Slide down now, love."

I wanted to be the one who pulled the covers up, as the dog lay her head on the bed, watching it all with eloquent eyes that said, 'This is the center of the universe, and it is good here.'

I wanted to add my kisses to hers on his brow, feel his arms lace around my neck, and say good night a dozen times before she and I finally put out the light, and closed the door behind us, my arm around her waist. We would go, then, to her, no, _our_ room, and I would run my hands through that mass of hair before she pinned it up for sleep, as I now watched her doing.

Yes, and then lay down with her, and have her nestle in against me, and fall asleep, knowing that there would be time later to say all that was wanted and needed, once we were rested. There would be time for everything, later. Now was the time to heal.

I waited for a long time before I unfolded myself and began to climb down from the tree. My mind was reeling. Two thoughts whirled around each other—the first—

There isn't enough money in the world to buy that.

—for that _was_ love, it could not be anything less—and the second thought—

Christine could not possibly have done better for our son than this—this place, this woman, this _Anne._

Unfortunately, my position in that tree had caused my left foot and leg to go to sleep, and when I went to climb down, it collapsed under me, and I fell, landing with such a blindingly painful jolt to the spine that I blacked out for a short time.

I must have caused some disturbance, for the lights in the kitchen house were all turned on once more. I heard the warning bark of a big dog—Truffle had been let out. I tried to turn over, to scramble to my feet, but I couldn't, I was still stunned by the fall.

I heard a growl, saw the dark shape of the dog approach me slowly, cautiously, saw her hunch and gather herself for a spring.

She knocked the breath out of me again. I crossed my hands over my neck, that she might sink her teeth into my forearms rather than my throat.

The slavering jaws were dangerously near, I could hear her panting, I could feel her hot breath. I wondered briefly what Nadir would do with my body.

Then she made a quizzical noise—sniffed twice—and an enormous wet tongue slapped my hands.

I breathed out. Why? Was it possible that I _smelled_ like the boy? I didn't know. "There's a good Truffle." I forced out, and petted her. She liked that, and let me use her to pull myself up.

Above us, a window opened. "Whoever you be," shouted Anne. "I'm armed. Get yourself out of here, and fast!"

She didn't have to tell me twice. Truffle accompanied me part of the way back to the cottage, but a frantic whistle stopped her. She looked from me back to the kitchen house, and whined. "You should go." I told her, and gestured. She bounded away.

I made it back to the cottage without further incident. Nadir and Darius were probably asleep by now, and I did not want to wake them. Nor did I feel like going to bed immediately. Instead, I went to the cottage's dining room, turned on one light, and got my dessert from the cabinet where I had left it earlier. I had not wanted it then. I wanted it now.

It was a chocolate mousse, piped into a tall parfait glass, and topped with a fresh strawberry cut into a flower. It looked a bit tired now, that mousse, but that was my fault. I had let it sit. I picked up a spoon, took some, and paused to look at.

I had never cared for food very much, perhaps—perhaps because my mother had always demanded, insisted, forced food on me. Whether I ate or not was something I could control, and because she had wanted me to, I did not.

But then my mother had left out the most important ingredient—genuine affection.

I put the spoonful into my mouth, and for the first time, I truly thought about what I was putting into my mouth, I opened myself up to the experience of eating, of enjoying what I ate. I rolled the light, rich spoonful of mousse over my tongue, and let it melt. The texture was soft, almost foamy. The flavor was deep and intense, full of a hundred thousand notes and hints. The strawberry was cool, barely sweet at all, but firm, and its contrast to the mousse heightened the taste of both. I took another spoonful.

This was, in its way, art. Art in the way that music was art—something that required both performer and audience, something that existed only for a brief moment in time, but which could be recreated, with variations.

The mousse did get rather salty as I got to the bottom of the dish, but that too was my fault. My eyes had been streaming very freely, and tears, as everyone knows, are salty.

* * *

**Chocolate Mousse of Great Profundity:**

For many years I thought I hated chocolate mousse; then I made some on my own. I discovered with the first bite that I didn't hate chocolate mousse, I hated my _mother's_ chocolate mousse. Hers was grainy and watery and thoroughly nasty.

I learned to cook in self-defense. My mother was a very bad cook, who managed to ruin and burn Toll-House chocolate chip cookies whenever she made them.

1 envelope unflavored powdered gelatin

¼ cup cold water

1/3 cup boiling water

1 cup sugar

2/3 cup dark Dutch (or European) alkali processed cocoa

2 cups or 1 pint very cold heavy whipping cream. (NOT table cream, NOT non-fat dairy creamer, NOT the stuff that comes in an aerosol can, NOT pre-sweetened baker's whipping cream. Just plain heavy whipping cream.)

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

Take a heavy glass bowl and put it in the freezer about half an hour before you make this. In order to whip cream, it must be cold, and the colder it is, the better it will whip. Glass will stay cold best; porcelain is also good. Metal and plastic bowls are useless.

Sprinkle the powdered gelatin over the cold water in a small bowl, and let it sit for 2 minutes to soften. Add the boiling water, and stir until it is completely dissolved. Let it cool slightly.

Take the bowl out of the freezer, and combine the cocoa and sugar in it. Add the whipping cream and vanilla, and beat at medium speed with an electric mixer. Scrape the bowl's sides with a spatula every so often. Continue until it is stiff. Add the gelatin mixture, and beat until well blended. The gelatin helps the mousse to maintain its stability, so the cream won't go back to being liquid.

Spoon into dessert dishes immediately (or, if you have a pastry bag and decorating tips as used to decorate cakes, you can get fancy and pipe it in). Refrigerate for at least half an hour. Garnish with sliced strawberries, or your choice of fruit. Store covered in refrigerator, if there is any left. Don't eat too much of this immediately before going to bed, because it is loaded with sugar and you won't sleep.

* * *

**A/N:** Anybody who wants to know what Truffle looks like should check out the website aboutbeaucerons . com, and look in their photo gallery—especially the Beaucerons At Work and Play. She's one of the three colored Harlequin type, and she has cropped, or docked ears. 

Hello, everyone! Well, **Emily**, here's an update! How's that for soon?

**Erik for President:** I sent you an email answering you. If it got lost or eaten, might I suggest you check out my _other_ phic?

**Allegratree:** I'm so sorry! How's your puppy? We get so attached to these little creatures… I think the lack of nausea you felt might be attributed to context. I would never write such dialog for a love scene between two adults. Ever.

**Phantom Raver:** I know for a fact that Anne would find a Strawberry Wobbler hilarious.

**Nota Lone: **Wait and see, my friend, wait and see.

**Bella:** Thanks. I'm glad I made things just a little better for you. I've been known to make chicken pot pie now and then, so we'll see.

**Sue Raven: **You're right. He'll never have it easy, but he will have a solid center to draw on.

**Pickledishkiller:** I send you a cyber hug.

**Sat Isis:** You sure called that one... don't let it go to your head.


	14. Planning a Wedding Feast

**A/N:** Just as the Christine of this fic is a Leroux Christine—meaning she is blonde, and was never in the ballet, the Meg and Madame Giry of this fic are also based on Leroux. Meg is small, dark, and thin; Madame Giry was not the ballet mistress, but the box-keeper/usherette who looked after Box Five.

This is now the next day. Erik Sr. went to bed after eating his chocolate mousse.

* * *

**Anne:**

When Virginié came to fetch me, I was trying to make heads or tails of the wine-merchant's listing. Truth be told, my knowledge of wines isn't all that it could be. I know good wine when that I drink it, but there's so many vineyards and years that were good or bad, that with everything else I've to do around here, I can't keep it all straight. And when I've got a wine fixed in my head as good, then all the stock runs out and the merchant can't get no more of it.

The common room is easy to order for—so many liters of vin ordinaire, red and white. It's the wine as is meant for the posh dining room as gives me the trouble. Folk expect to have fine wines to go with fine food. L'Epoque said, when last they wrote us up, as our food was 'superlative', but our wine cellar wasn't up to snuff. It don't matter how good my cooking is, without a wine cellar to match, we won't never be first rank. It's no good asking the merchant to send what he thinks best, cause I tried that once, and he unloaded all manner of plonk on me what no on else would touch, and no guest would order. I'm still using it up as wine vinegar. It's no good for nothing else.

It couldn't have helped that I told the man, when he went and suggested _that_, as I was a married woman, and anyways, he wasn't nowhere near ugly enough to suit me.

Most times, that makes them laugh.

So I was glad when Virginié came and told me I was wanted, cause there was a mother and her daughter, as was getting married, in with her grandda, and they wanted to have the feast here. I left the wine list, got my book of menus and my book for taking notes, and gave a few orders to keep all going smooth while I was gone. Brides and their mothers can eat up time like Erik does cookies.

"All right—You don't have to do nothing about the strawberry jam as has been canned already; just let it cool down where it be. Ame, you need to watch the glacé de viand, it's got to cook slow. Claude, you got the bread going good, and I knows you know what to do. Minna, you keep on with them vegetables, you're doing fine work. Erik, love, there's something in here as is making a terrible smell. Could you hunt out whatever it is as is stinking?" That having been said, I went out.

I passed the new waitress in the passageway from the kitchen to the main house. "Good morning, Andrea." I said.

"Good morning, Madame." She's a tall girl, with shortish blond hair, and she wears glasses. Monsieur Hussenot says as sometimes he worries they'll fall off the end of her nose whiles she's serving, cause she can't push them back up when her hands is full. I like her right well. She always smiles when she asks after Erik—and a real smile, too, not just baring her teeth as some do.

The inn and kitchen house is more than 250 years old. It looks right romantical, being made of brown-grey stone what has flakes of quartz in it. When the light's right, it shimmers. The roof is slate, and the trim's painted white. Pink roses climb up the walls, here and there, and all that put together makes it a lovely spot for a wedding party.

I knocked on M'sieu Hussenot's door and went in.

The bride was a dainty little dab of a girl, dark-haired—not what you'd call pretty, but there was a spark about her. Her mother had some of that same spark, only being so much older, it had kind of gone off a bit. She had on a hat as had two feathers sticking up, like the feelers on a bug, what twitched around whenever she moved. Made her look a bit batty, truth be told.

"Ah—this is our Madame Touchet," M'sieu Hussenot said. "Madame Touchet, this is Madame Giry, and her daughter, Mademoiselle Marguerite Giry. Mamselle Giry is engaged to be married to the Baron Castelo-Barbazac."

"I give you my best wishes for your happiness, Mademoiselle." I told her.

"Thank you, Madame." she answered.

"I'm telling you again, Meg, he's the wrong man." Her mother's head bobbed, and the feathers danced. "It's all very well that he's a baron, but a baron isn't an emperor. The Ghost said you would be an empress. What will you do when the Emperor comes, once you're married?"

"All due respect to the Ghost, Mama, but no one's heard a peep out of him since Christine Daaé married her Comte."

I had to keep myself from jumping when I heard that.

"And anyway," Meg Giry wasn't done, "the Ghost didn't provide any details—like the emperor's name, for instance. Maybe I'll be widowed, and he'll be my second husband. Maybe Stephan will _become_ Emperor somehow. Or maybe the Ghost meant something—a little less formal."

"Meg Giry! May you be forgiven!" snapped Madame Giry.

"Sorry, Mama. I beg your pardon. The reason why we're here, of course, is because I want to have our wedding reception here. You see, Stephan and I were here a few months ago, back in February. We were going for a drive in his new motor-car, and not only was there thick snow and slush on the roads, but it was sleeting as well. To make a long story short, we wound up in a ditch, until this terribly nice man in a wagon hauled up out and brought us here.

"At first Stephan was as grouchy as a bear, and when he gets into one of those moods, he can just sulk for _days. _But we took a table, and your waitress brought us this wonderful spicy creamy bisque soup with smoked salmon and tomatoes. By the time he'd finished it, he said 'Well, it could have been worse.'

"Then we had these beautifully flaky pastries with mushroom filling, served with a white truffle cream sauce. He spooned up every trace of that sauce, and then he said, 'Things aren't so bad. The motor isn't damaged, and neither are we.'

"The next course was a shepard's pie, and that was just meltingly delicious. It had a crust of mashed potatoes on top, in pretty star-shaped spikes, baked golden brown. He said, after that, that if the car hadn't had such a good something-or-other mechanical, we could both have been killed, and it was a wonder that it handled so well.

"After that, we had some lovely slices of ham with brandied fruit in a luscious orange Madeira sauce, and he said there was nothing like a narrow escape to make you feel alive.

"Our dessert was so simple—just a creamy cheese, molded in the shape of a heart, on a plate of raspberry sauce, and an almond cookie—but I have to say that I've never tasted anything quite so delicious! By that time, Stephan had fallen silent—but he was looking at me so—tenderly. When the liqueurs and coffee arrived—it was then that he _proposed_.

"There's something really marvelous about your cooking—almost magical. I've never known anything else that took him from a bad mood to a good one so quickly. I don't suppose I could get you to come work for us, after we're married?"

"Thank you, Mademoiselle, but no. I'm happy where I am." I told her. Poor M'sieu Hussenot looked so alarmed, I wanted to laugh.

"I was afraid of that. Oh, well. I thought it would be romantic to have the reception here, and the menu won't be any trouble, because I want to have the exact same meal as we did that night. And a wedding cake, too, of course."

"That won't be no trouble at all to do—only, when is you planning to be wed?" I asked.

"The end of next month. June 29th, to be exact." she replied.

"It can be done, but the meal you recall is out-of-season. Most of those is cold-weather dishes. I'm in fear your guests'll be fainting from the heat, seeing as it's like to be a hot day, and a boiling hot meal on top of it."

"Oh! I never thought of that…I'm willing to put myself in your hands, Madame Touchet, because I haven't a clue what to order on my own. I need help. What would you suggest?"

You don't get offers like that every day. I took a deep breath afore I began, "Instead of copying that meal entire, that I should take the food what's at the center of each course, salmon, mushrooms, lamb and vegetables, ham and fruit, and make a summer dish using it. To start, instead of a hot, thick soup, what think you of cold salmon, poached in white wine with shallots, and served on a bed of dill-cucumber mousse?"

"That sounds—refreshing." was her answer. "Go on."

"For the second course, a salad of young lettuces and fresh herbs with morel mushrooms, with little knobs of fresh bread and a dressing of walnut oil and brambleberries, picked only that morning, with the dew still on them. The lettuces and herbs have a touch of bitterness to them, which the nut oil mellows and the blackberries sweeten, until all's in balance."

"You're making me hungry! What next?" Meg Giry sat forward and fixed her eyes on me.

"Lamb chops, grilled medium rare, with a terrine of vegetables what are in season. Artichokes, leeks, asparagus, and other such."

"I'll say it only once more, Meg, it shouldn't be him!" put in Madame Giry.

"Hush, Mama. I know. Aren't those vegetables supposed to…inspire the passions?" she asked.

"Happen as they are." I smiled at her.

"Definitely that, then!" she dimpled. "And next is the ham and fruit?"

"For that, I would serve dry-cured ham, sliced thin as paper, wrapped round bites of sweet melon. With it, two kinds of my pâté, and crusty rounds of bread to spread it on. Three of our local cheeses, one of cow's milk, one of sheep's milk, and one of goat's milk. All small portions as'll fit on one plate." Half of cooking is knowing what _not_ to do—not ruining it. Simplest would be best here.

"I've heard it said that a meal without cheese is like a beautiful woman without a nose." said Meg Giry.

"So they say." I agreed, though that saying cuts a hair too close to home. "On the table, there'll be dishes of fruit from our own orchard. Apricots, plums, sweet table grapes, cherries, and figs, so's your guests can take as they choose. They looks right pretty, too, as nice as flowers in their way. Will there be any children in the party?"

"No. The circle I'm marrying into would leave them at home with their nannies. No one under sixteen will be there. Not many of my old friends, either—except for the Countess de Chagny."

I broke my pencil point on the page I wrote. _She was coming here. _That was good and bad. Bad because I would have to take care the Comte didn't catch sight of me—or Amelié and Claude, cause the photo of Rosalie showed as she was a Norbert, through and through. Good, cause she and I would get to see each other again—and she might get a glimpse of _him. _I'd write and tell her to come by the kitchen, afore they went—to say she wanted a recipe for her cook, or somewhat.

"No children." I said, and writ it down with the blunt pencil. "The dessert of cream cheese with raspberry sauce is good all year round, but it ought to be only a bite or two, so's everyone will have room for wedding cake. What say you to having two almond cookies in the shape of cockleshells, with the cheese piped in between, like pearls spilling out, on a spoonful of sauce, with perhaps a bit of spun sugar on it, like seaweed?"

"How pretty! And now for the cake. I don't want it to be a fruitcake. I don't care two finger snaps about tradition. I hate fruitcake. And I hate those big white mountains of cakes, too. I want something _different._ As wonderful as your idea for the cream cheese. Something everyone will talk about."

It was already coming together. "Not fruitcake. The lightest of genoise cakes. Filled with lemon curd, and frosted with a meringue buttercream. In the shape of—the shape of a swan. Life-sized."

"How perfect!" she gasped. "Did you know?"

"Know what?" I hadn't a clue.

"That I'm a ballerina, and he first saw me dance Odette in Swan Lake!"

"No. I didn't know that. I've never been to a ballet."

"What a shame! But do go on. Tell me how."

"I'll cut and shape the baked cake to make the body of the swan. The head, neck and wings will be—meringue. The beak will be candied orange peel, and I'll put slivers of almond in the wings as'll make it look like feathers. They'll bring it out on a serving platter as has a lake of blueberries in sauce.Round about the edges, I'll put candied angelica, like lake reeds."

"Angelica is an herb, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes. It's got long green stalks."

"I see. I want the swan cake, as you described it. It's too perfect. Only, could you make a little coronet for the swan's head? Out of spun sugar, like the seaweed for the dessert? I wore one when I danced."

"That I can do." I smiled, and took my leave.

I made my way back to the kitchen. It's odd how different toffs are, from folk like me. Any wedding of ours had more children than grown-ups, cause it was an occasion for family. I guess when you start thinking more highly of elegance nor you do of all else, you don't want to have great-grandda bouncing little ones on his knees.

I never had a wedding. Isn't likely as I ever will. I made my bed, and now I got to lie in it—alone.

When I got back there, every one of my staff was looking at me like an axe was going to fall, and I was the one holding it.

"What's wrong?" I looked around. "Where's Erik?"

"Upstairs in his room." said Sophie.

"We know where the smell was coming from." Claude came out with it.

"And what? Did he find it and get sick?" I wondered.

"No—he didn't find it. You should come see." Ame took me out the back door.

On the stoop there sat a narrow drawer. From the knob and the wood I could see it came from the sideboard. It was a funny little drawer as I used for oddments as was too good to toss, but never got used. Now it was full—of something as made me want to heave. It was green and white and brown, and some of it was watery, while most of it was furred with mold. I looked at the stuff.

It was half-chewed broccoli—most of it, anyhow. Looked as if some of it was liver, once. We'd last had liver over a week before. Erik don't like it no more nor he does broccoli—and the sideboard was right behind his chair at the table.

He'd been sneaking food out of his mouth and into the drawer for over a week, at least.

"He went upstairs and hid when we found it. He knows as he's going to be in trouble over it." Amelié explained.

"He's not wrong. Scrape it out on to the midden, won't you, dear? And scour it out with sand and salt. After that, just leave it in the sun for a few days, that should do it."

"Must I?" she asked.

"That's the advantage to being the one as gives the orders. I don't care who does it as long as it gets done. Wait until after I talks to Erik, though."

I went in and up the stairs. "Erik?" I couldn't see hide nor hair of my son in his room, so I opened the wardrobe. No boy in there. Anyone would think, from how he takes on, as I beat him when he's bad, when all he gets is a scolding and sent to bed without dessert.

I looked under the bed. He was curled up against the wall. "How's about coming out now?"

"Are you—are you mad at me?"

"I'm not pleased. Come on now. Sooner it's done is the sooner it's over." He scrambled out, covered in fluffs of dust. I guess I don't sweep out so often as I ought.

"Come on downstairs. Now, what you done is bad in more ways nor one. First of all, you wasted food, and that's just wrong. I know you don't like liver nor broccoli, but it's good for you. We all got to do things as we don't like." I took him out to the stoop.

"Next, you made out as if you ate it, when you didn't, so's you could have dessert. That's a lie, even if you didn't say a word, and that's wrong, too." Although I'm a fine one to talk about lies being wrong. I know it; I just don't know how to stop and get free of them all, and be clean and honest again.

"Last, and most of all, you done something as could cause your Mam trouble. You remember M'sieu Armand and Morenci, as come by every so often? They're health inspectors, and their job is to go around to where food is made and sold, to check that folk don't put chalk dust in the flour or rat meat in the sausages. They also look for bad smells, cause you can't have rotting food in a kitchen. If they had come afore we found this, they'd shut our kitchen down. For days, maybe. And that would be very bad for all of us. I could lose my place over that. You understand me?"

"Yes, Mam!" He was crying. "I'm sorry, Mam. I won't do it, no more, never. I didn't know, Mam. I don't want us to lose our place here!"

"I know you won't, cause you're my good boy," I gathered him to me. "It's just as you're a bit naughty, sometimes. Now, cause for the last week you been eating desserts you didn't earn, all this week there'll be no dessert for you. Now wipe your face. See? All done."

Seems as if this was another day as wasn't going to flow smooth like cream from a pitcher, neither…

* * *

**A/N:** I couldn't decide which recipe to put in… 

_**Eighteen **_reviews for the last chapter, and that was even with a 48 hour blackout of ff! Wow!

**Allegratree:** Thanks. I took pains with it, since it was an emotionally important chapter. And as for the book on Pasteur—she's trying to feed an insatiably curious brain, and that was what she came up with. I do have trouble deciding what a chapter is—I tend to go scene by scene.

**Bella:** I'm sorry you've been so down lately. I'm glad I can help.

**Lexi:** hope you did well on that physics exam.

**Sue Raven:** Thanks. Know what not to do to food, and why, is very helpful. I think more cookbooks should tell the reader that.

**Mi-Chan:** Their relationship has some basis on my grandmother and myself. She was wonderful.

**Phantom Raider:** I came close to crying as I was _writing_ it. Thanks!

**Emily**: Hints of Christine in this chapter…

**Mia26:** He'll be meeting at least one of them in the next chapter, even if it won't be face to face.

**HDKingsbury:** Thanks, I'll correct them. I read your profile: I recently watched The Man Who Laughs, with Conrad Veidt, for the first time. Had I seen it a few weeks earlier, Erik would have been Erik Gwynplaine rather than Touchet. And I'm a Richard III fan myself—I'm even a member of the Richard III Society. Perhaps we should e-mail each other?

**Le Miroir:** Thanks! I think that when the shallower obsessions die down, the average quality of writing will go back up, and the phandom will have benefited from some new blood.

**An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin:** I cried while writing chapter 12…

**Fishy:** Thank you—you're close on some of your speculations, but not all…. (Evil laughter)

**ButterflyGuitar**: Gladly. Like Water For Chocolate, by Laura Esquivel.

Let me not neglect to shout out to **Nota Lone, Josette**and the amazing **Pickledishkiller**!


	15. A Little Voice

I woke to find a pair of blue eyes gazing intently into mine. "Good morning, Ayesha." I ventured. The residual soreness in my throat was gone; that was good.

"Brrr-Meow!" was her response. I lifted a hand to rub the crusts from my eyes, and she nudged her head under it, using my hand to pet herself with.

"Don't try that with me. Not after last night, you hussy." I told her. After I finished my chocolate mousse, I had gone to my room to find not one cat, but two, the second a stranger. A male stranger. Specifically, a tomcat. I had forgotten that Ayesha had been sheltered from more than owls when we lived underneath the opera house. I discovered an open window that I was sure had been shut when I left. Ayesha was uncannily good at working human-made mechanisms; I had sometimes constructed mazes and devices to amuse us both. She had learned a little too well.

"I suppose you've got a belly full of kittens now." I grumbled, as I scratched between her shoulder blades. She simply purred at me.

It was time to assess the damage I had done to myself the night before. I experimentally stretched and flexed my limbs. It was possible that I had broken or sprained something in my fall, and not known it at the time. Everything seemed to work, and nothing hurt in a way that suggested a crippling injury.

Which was not to say that nothing hurt. If I had thought I was in pain yesterday morning, it was as nothing compared to today. The next question was, could I get up? Ayesha jumped down as I shifted my weight, and sat up.

My spine was a writhing snake of pain. It seemed to drip acid on my nerves as the venomous serpent did upon the head of the imprisoned Loki, the Norse god of mischief, when his wife emptied the goblet she used to catch the drips of poison.

I had no wife, no goblet, and, in truth, no serpent—only a middle-aged body that was protesting its abuse. After a while, I decided I was not going to pass out from the pain, and essayed the monumental task of standing. My legs wanted to fold up under me, but I clutched at the bedpost like a drowning man to a mast, and eventually gained my equilibrium. The next step was literally a step…

Some time later, I was sufficiently clean and clothed enough to have breakfast with Nadir and Darius. The waiter was walking away down the garden path as I left my room.

Just before I entered the dining room, I heard Darius ask his master, "Should I go and ask him if he wants his breakfast, or should I take the tray so he can reject it in person?"

Entering, I informed him, "You can put the dishes on the table and set a place for me. I don't know how much of it I will eat, but I will at least taste everything." I had decided I was going to learn to appreciate Anne's particular form of genius. "Good morning, Darius. Nadir." I nodded in his direction, and pulled out a chair.

"Good morning, Erik. Did you happen to learn anything of interest from the brother—and why are you limping this morning?"

I seated myself gingerly, as my spine was protesting, and spread a napkin over my lap. "That a trip to Lyons is absolutely necessary to determine several important facts." I said.

"The ground under that tree must have been hard." Darius conjectured.

"Ground under the tree?" asked Nadir. "What are you talking about?"

"I heard about it when I took that letter to the office. Madame Touchet's peace was disturbed by a man spying on her and the boy last night. He was watching them from a tree outside their window. He fell out of the tree, and the dog chased him away. She didn't get a good look at him, but she said he was very tall and very thin. It wasn't too difficult to put it together from there." Darius finished.

"All right, " I admitted, to forestall the inevitable questions. "Yes, I did climb the tree. I did eavesdrop on them, and I did descend from the tree in the fastest and most painful manner possible. I wanted to see how she behaved toward him when she thought no one was watching her."

"And how did she treat him?" inquired Nadir.

I opened my mouth to answer, and was surprised by such a choking rush of emotion that I could not immediately speak. I took a forkful of the food before me, to occupy my mouth while I sought for words that would express what I saw without overwhelming me.

It was delicious. It was an egg and cheese dish, light and fluffy. I almost got lost while analyzing the component flavors and ingredients. Mustard? Thyme? Ham... I swallowed it before I managed to say, "Exactly as she did in company."

I could feel Nadir's eyes burning into me, but he did not press for more about my nocturnal adventuring. Instead, he returned to the original topic of conversation. "What was it the brother said that makes you think you need to go rushing off to Lyons?"

"She was trained as a cook in a household near Lyons; she says she met her husband there, and she claims she was married to him in the Registry Office in Lyons. The brother says he has seen the certificate, and I believe him. May I also remind you that M'sieu Hussenot says that a law office in Lyons handles all the inn's monies and accounts—even to the point of hiring staff? Presumably they know who owns it." I turned to Darius. "Did they say, in the office, when the mail would go out?"

"It will already have gone out by now. The train picks it up three times a day. It should be in Paris before eleven and in your assistant's mailbox by noon."

"Admirable. What sort of jam is in that pot?"

"Various red fruits—strawberry, raspberry, red currant, and cherry. The waiter pointed out that it is made on the premises from local produce." Darius told me.

"That sounds excellent. If you would be so kind as to pass me that, and the toast as well—thank you, Darius."

"Something's wrong." pronounced Darius. "He's eating. That's not like him."

"I know what's going on." Nadir said in an undertone. "I doubt this one believes in angelic voices, Erik—or if she does, it isn't to the exclusion of more prosaic explanations."

"Oh, no!" said Darius, horrified. "Not again!"

"My sentiments exactly," I put in, gloomily. "Let us move on to another subject, or, better still, return to the previous one: Lyons. There must be any number of trains going there from here every day."

"I can provide a schedule." Nadir said, "I'm not sure you're up to it—at least not today. And I do not think you should go alone."

"You have my word I will touch no form of opium, or any other drug."

"That is not my primary concern. If you intend to go by day, you may need help in dealing with people—and if you go by night, you will need a lookout. In any event, if you are taken ill, you will need assistance."

"Daroga—while I do appreciate your concern—you cannot shepard me through the rest of my life—nor should you. More to the point, I do not want you to. I want to retain your friendship—I don't want you to transform into my permanent nursemaid."

He started to say something, and thought better of it. "Erik—we shall speak of this later."

"As you will," I agreed. "Oh, and when the waiter returns, can you tell him to pass it on to—Madame Anne, that the invalid is feeling so much better that he believes he might attempt more solid foods than she has hitherto prepared?"

"That can be done," Nadir addressed Darius. "See to it. Can you give me more details from the brother's account?"

"Certainly. No one in the family, other than Anne, can say they ever saw her husband. They did not even learn of her marriage until after she had become a mother. While she was fairly independent, and wrote infrequently, that seems to be carrying reticence beyond the credible. It wasn't simply an illegitimate child—the family has dealt with that before.

"There is also a possible connection to the crib death of a younger sister—the death occurred while Anne was watching her. No blame attaches to her—but she reacted with a violent, excessive grief.

"She also does her best to help out the younger members of her extended family, but in practical ways, rather than with money."

"Interesting. Will you want the infant exhumed and examined?" Nadir rubbed his eyebrow.

"Not as yet. Have you anyone lined up to be interviewed today?"

"Madame Hussenot will be available after lunch."

"Very good. It should be interesting to hear her on the subject of Anne and the boy—if only as a contrast to her spouse." I commented.

"Quite. What will you do until then?" he asked.

"Lie down, I believe. Think and rest."

"Brood, you mean. Indulge yourself in self-deprecation all you wish, if you must, but keep your conclusions to yourself." He shook his head.

He was right, as he so often is. That was quite an annoying habit of his. I made a mental note to speak to him about it.

Once back in my rooms, I did what I only did when I wanted to make a point to myself; I took off my mask in front of a mirror, and took a good long look at myself.

There I was, yellow-eyed, gaunt, lacking a nose…About the only deformities I had missed were a cleft palate and hare-lip. My mouth was far too wide, I could draw my lips up and out until I showed as much of my teeth and gums as an orangutan.

The lips themselves were uneven and misshapen. A large, worm-like lump on one side of the upper lip dwindled to no more than a line on the other. My chin did not recede, but that was the best that could be said for it.

Sparse dark hair—getting a bit long, though. Must see about borrowing scissors and neatening it up. It was a pity I couldn't go to a barber, like any other man. Every bone of my face and skull showed through faintly mottled skin like parchment. The cords of muscle showed almost as clearly as an anatomical illustration.

Ghastly. Horrible. Horrifying. A living memento mori.

I hated to look at myself. I have always hated to look at myself.

The boy, now—. He wasn't afraid of the mirror. He wasn't afraid to look at himself. He even played at making himself even more grotesque. I wondered how she had accomplished that. I had a sudden vision of Anne holding the boy when he was still a baby and pointing to their reflections in a mirror, saying—"Look—there's Mam, and that's Erik,"—and the boy clapping his chubby baby hands, chortling in delight at the attention. I probably wasn't far off from reality.

Anne loved the boy, face and all.

It did not follow that she would also love me. I mean, even if my face wasn't objectionable to her, that didn't erase everything else about me. I was a little over twice her age, my hands were blood-stained, I was self-poisoned by drugs for years, I was tired, prone to moods both dark and angry, soured by life, and conflicted in heart. I had not even begun to delve into the morass of my emotions—was loving Anne disloyalty to Christine?

And I had so very little to offer them. I was unemployed, my fortunes were spent; the last of my jewels, save for Ayesha's collar of diamonds, were financing this sojourn in the country, and whatever qualities I might possess as a father were as yet unknown. I was as terrible at physical love as I was at nearly every other aspect of human interaction.

Damn my memory. There had been no pleasure for Christine at all in what we had done together, and very little for me, in all truth. It had been over so quickly—a lifetime of yearning for fulfillment at once emotional, spiritual and physical had ultimately amounted to no more than a few desperate pokes in the dark.

Passion was a cheat and a trickster.

The best thing I could probably do for them—for all three of them, Anne, Christine, and the boy, was to turn my back and walk away. They had a good life, a happy life here; I could only ruin it.

I was quite prepared to ride that spiral downward into one of my abysmal sessions of self-recrimination and blame, but at that moment, I heard a whisper coming from my bedroom.

"Hallo? M'sieu Makepeace?" It was a little voice, a young voice, yes, a child's voice.

I hastily replaced my mask and went into the bedroom. Glancing about, I saw no one in the room, but the window _was_ open. I stopped. "Who is calling me—and where are you?"

"I'm outside, sir. My name's Erik."

He did not have to tell me that. I already knew.

"Erik." I said the name as his name for the very first time. "Are you the Erik who is Madame Touchet's little boy?" I asked. It seemed a reasonable question, under the circumstances. I didn't want to give myself away.

"Yes. That's me. I'm sorry you're sick."

"Thank you. What can I do for you?" I inquired.

"Um. I thought I'd come help you feel better. Are you the one as was playing the fiddle the first night you come here?" He asked the question in a furtive rush.

"Yes. I take it you heard me play. Did you like it?"

"Oh, sir! It was beautiful! I never heard nothing like it! Umm…when you're better, might you play again some night?"

"I imagine I could." Yes. I would. I would play every night if that was what he wanted.

"I play the fiddle, too, but I can't play like you." He sounded sad, yet hopeful under it.

"Do you, now? What sort of music do you know?"

"Like this…" He began to whistle a jig.

"I see. Who taught you to play? Someone from around here?"

"Yes, sir. M'sieu Bertrand what works in the garden here taught me how. He's our friend."

"I see. Is he a young man or an old one?" And, what is his relationship with your mother?

"Oh, he's old. He's bent and wrinkled and his head is all shiny on top. He comes to dinner two-three nights a week and we play together afterwards."

"Are you just beginning with your lessons, or have you been studying a long time?"

"Umm. I don't know."

"Have you been studying more than a month?" I would try to break my questions into answerable pieces from now on.

"How long's a month?" he asked. Time is different when you are a child; it is always _now_, and anything else is vague.

"Four weeks—four Sundays." I amended, to help him mark time. Surely Sundays would stand out in his mind, with the break in routine afforded by going to church.

"Lots more nor that." he replied.

He fell silent, while I searched for something to say. "I'll make a deal with you. I'll play for you if you'll play for me." I finally said. 'Could you do that?"

"When?" he asked eagerly.

"Now?" It wasn't far to the house—with his young legs, he could go and be back in minutes.

"Oh. No. I couldn't get my fiddle. They'd all want to know where I was going with it. I'm not supposed to play until after dinner—and I'm not supposed to talk to guests, neither." His voice sank to a whisper.

"Really? Why not?"

"Cause if they don't like it, my Mam could lose her place here." he answered, in the same tiny voice.

Given all that I had learned already, that seemed unlikely, but I did not question it further. "Did you decide to speak to me because you heard I liked to hear people talk?"

"Yes, sir. And because of how you plays the fiddle."

I decided to venture something of my own. Perhaps I had something to give, after all. "Would you like to learn how to play like I do?"

"OH!" he exploded. "Would I? Sir!"

"I take it that means yes. Quiet down before you're heard to be talking to me. Now, I don't think I could or should start teaching you without your mother's permission."

"But if she finds out as I've been talking to you, she'll be mad again and I won't have no dessert for years and years!" he finished with a wail.

"Has she already been mad at you today?"

"Uh-huh. Cause I put my broccoli in the drawer and made a big stink and the inspectors would have shut us out of the house."

That made no sense to me at all, but no doubt it did to him. Children are often inexplicable. "Then we can't have you getting in trouble again today. Let me tell you how we'll arrange this……."

**A/N: A cliff-hanger!**

**

* * *

**

**Egg and Cheese Soufflé for A Very Good Morning**

3 eggs

½ cup milk

Dash of salt

1/8th teaspoon dry mustard

1/8th teaspoon dried thyme

3 slices firm bread, crust removed and sliced into cubes

½ to ¾ cup shredded cheddar or gruyere cheese

paprika

2 ounces chopped cooked ham (optional)

The night before serving—so you don't have to do it in the morning—whisk together the eggs, milk, salt, dry mustard, and thyme. Add the bread cubes and the cheese. Mix lightly. Pour into two custard dishes, sprayed with cooking spray. The dishes should be glass or ceramic bowls that are oven safe.

Refrigerate overnight.

Next morning, preheat oven to 400 degrees and sprinkle chopped ham over the egg mixture, if desired. Lightly dust with paprika. Bake for 15-20 minutes, until it is puffed up and no more than lightly browned.

Serves two.

* * *

**A/N: Hello, everyone!** This one is just flowing especially well right now, so the updates have been frequent. 

**Butterfly-Guitar:** You're welcome. It may get more confusing before it all starts falling into place…

**Pickledishkiller:** You mean my profile picture? (Don't know what you could mean otherwise) Thanks! I got to see that one in person at the Library of Congress. It's even better in person. It's one of a series, and the other images look like something from The Ring and The Grudge.

**Ellen:** Glad you're still along for the ride…FF has been trying lately.

**Bella:** Here I thought I was being fairly plausible in the way I brought in Madame and Mademoiselle Giry. Okay. I won't do it like that again. Thanks. I want to tell the best story possible. I admit I was having a lot of fun with the wedding menu. In retrospect, I wish I'd saved the summer menu suggestions for a later chapter. Oh, well.

**Nota Lone:** Because they like their sushi really, really fresh? Baited breath, get it? Okay, never mind….. (shuffles off before people start throwing things)

**Phantomphluter:** You're welcome! I try to get my grammar right— I don't always succeed. But Anne's sections would never work if Erik's weren't well-polished, so I do my best.

**An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin:** Thanks! (blows nose) I've had a cold this week…

**Emily:** Thank you! Darn it all, I may have to make a small version of that cake before I'm done!

**Erik for President:** Anytime.

**Thornwitch:** Jules-Renfield! I love that comparison…

**Awoman:** The Baron Castelo-Barbazac may or may not have been real. I got the name straight from Leroux's Introduction, when he mentions getting information from Meg.

**Sat-Isis**—But _why_ are cake batter and cookie dough so delicious if we're not supposed to eat it raw, that's what I want to know.

**HDKingsbury:** I got your e-mail, and you should have mine by now, unless AOL has eaten it.

**Allegratree:** (Sigh) I am striving for consistency in the use of the dialect, but sometimes it eludes me. Thanks. And also for your assessment of my use of the Girys. I had fun writing that.

**Sue Raven:** Sparks at the wedding? Wait and see….Preferably from a safe distance, such as another continent.


	16. Just a Brief Note

A brief note to my readers:

A few of you have expressed some dismay at the recent turn of events; namely, that Erik is now taking a romantic interest in Anne. It is true. He is. I do not apologize, (Bwah-hah-hah!) because I said he would in the author's note before the story began.

However, there is very little that is straightforward about this fic, except (of course) that Little Erik is adorable. Anne is merely another obsession at the moment. Erik doesn't know everything about her as yet—he will learn some disturbing things in Lyons.

Soppy, fluffy love will not be in the cards anytime soon.

Thank you for your reviews. I appreciate every last one of them.

Gevaisa


	17. Washing Leeks

**Anne:**

While I gave the leeks a good washing in the sink, I thought about the dream I had last night. It took me awhile to get to sleep after that snooping man ran off, but I dropped off after some hour or two lying awake there in the dark.

The dream was about my son, though he weren't in it. I dreamt I was scraping carrots in the convent hospital kitchen, but I wasn't pregnant in the dream. Then the sister came to ask me to step up to the Matron's sitting room, and I put down the carrot and went along of her. It was all in places I knew, but it wasn't nothing that ever happened.

I went into the room, and instead of the Matron, it was someone else sitting there by a cradle, someone I didn't know and can't remember, no matter how I try. Whoever it was said, "Come here, child."

And I went over. Half of me knew what it was as I would find there in the cradle, and gladness welled up in me. The other half was ignorant, and braced itself to cry out—though if she were truly ignorant, why should that be?

But the cradle was empty—only a cushion and a baby blanket were in it. I reached down to search it with my hands, as though Erik should be hidden somewhere, and I wanted to cry in desolation, for his not being there. Then I saw which cushion it was, the old fancy-work cushion as was there the night Diane died, the one as was going all to bits, and I knew what had happened to my son. I was struck with horror, and I looked to the one as was there in the Matron's place, wanting to scream, and then I woke.

I had to get up and look in on him, curled up in bed like a little mouse in thistledown, I was that shaken up by my dream. Sometimes it seems as if a dream is as real as anything what happens in the daytime, because all we have of our days once we've lived them is memories, and the memory of a dream can be as strong as that of any waking moment. So who's to say it wasn't true?

It was only a dream, though. No more.

I put all the cut leeks in the sink and ran cold water over them. Leeks is full of sand and mud, and want careful washing. I swished the water around and rubbed away the lumps of mud. I was making leek and chickpea soup for lunch, which is simple and always good, but wants a bit of attention paid it, to be at its best.

"It's nice having Truffle back again, isn't it?" asked Amelié, from where she was rubbing skins off the chick peas with Sophie. "Do you think she's caught this time?"

Last time Truffle was in heat, we took her back up to old Jacques, and despite everything, all that came of it was a false pregnancy. Her dugs leaked milk, she got broody and made nests, but never got big enough. She carried around one of Erik's cloth toys like it was her pup. She got over it, in time, but it was a piteous sight.

"I'm in hopes as she has." I said. It's odd, what hope and need can do to a body, and not only a dog's, neither. "Why, love, what are you all excited about now?"

My son had rushed in, with his eyes aglow and trembling with what he'd got to say. "Mam, I've thought of something _splendid!_ Remember how M'sieu Makepeace was playing a fiddle, that first night as he was staying here? Only he hasn't played since, on account of being sick. What if I was to play my fiddle outside of an evening so's he could hear _me_ play? It might help him feel better. Can I, Mam? Please?"

"Let me think on it a space." I cautioned him. As I thought it over, while he stood hopping from one foot to another, it seemed as it could do no harm, and might do some good, and could be as it would even lead somewhere. There's no denying my boy has a gift for it, so's it wouldn't be painful for the man to listen to him play—leastways, if he kept to the mellower pieces, not the rowdy jigs and reels. Too, it would be a diversion for the man, which seemed to be just what he needed. And it could even be that he'd take an interest in the fiddler…

"I think that's a right fine notion, dearheart."

He clapped his hands together and gave me a smile so bright I had to give him a buss on the forehead. "After dinner tonight, we'll go out in the garden near to the cottage, and you'll play for him and for me, and anyone else as wants to listen in."

He gave me a hug round the knees. "Thank you, Mam!"

"You're welcome, love. Mind you, now, if he complains, that'll be the end of it."

"I don't think he will, Mam, I'll play my bestest!"

"I know you will, love. You always do. Now, did you gather up the day's eggs yet?"

"No, Mam."

"Then that's what you can do next." I kissed him again, and sent him back out. I went back to my sink full of leeks, drained them and rinsed them off again. Tomorrow, I'm to take him round to the church music master, in the afternoon. He'll need to learn to read music…

* * *

**The Simplest Leek and Chickpea Soup:**

Leeks are a member of the onion family, but they taste somewhat greener. They look like an enormous scallion or green onion. As Anne observes, they need careful washing.

2 ½ pounds of leeks

3 tablespoons olive oil

15 oz can of chickpeas

3 14 ½ oz cans of vegetable or chicken broth

grated parmesan cheese—freshly grated if possible

salt and pepper

Trim off the root ends of the leeks, and cut off and throw away the tough part of the green tops. Slice the remainder length-wise. Put into a clean sink full of clean water, or else a large bowl of clean water in the sink. Wash carefully, rubbing at any clumps of mud or sand. Rinse several times.

Heat the oil in a soup pot. Add the leeks, cover the pan, turn the heat to low, and let them cook, stirring occasionally, until they are so soft they have nearly turned to mush, about 30 minutes.

While the leeks are cooking, open, drain and rinse the chickpeas. Then skin them by gently squeezing them between your fingers until the skin slips off. Discard the skin. This is not absolutely necessary, as the skins are quite edible, but the taste and texture of the finished soup will be much nicer if you do.

When the leeks are very soft, add the chickpeas and the broth. Stir, cover, and cook for another 15 minutes.

Puree half the soup in a food processor and return it to the pot. Taste and add pepper and salt if needed, and add water if that seems required. Serve sprinkled with parmesan cheese. Always wholesome, popular, and a good recipe for vegetarians, as it can be made with vegetable broth. **(This one's for you, Wzlwmn.)**

* * *

**Erik:**

After the boy ran off to ask his mother what we had agreed he would, that he might play for me that evening, I lay down on the bed. My thoughts were much less dark as a result of having talked to him.

It even allowed me to put my sudden longing for Anne into perspective: I did not really want her, necessarily. What I wanted was that tranquil happiness that I saw through the window last night. She was the architect of it, true, but it would melt away like a snowflake if I touched it, if I intruded on it. Nor did I want to get involved again with a woman; to press my suit on a horrified girl, to work and plead and beg and try to please, and be refused all but a grudging morsel… No. I was tired. It wasn't worth it.

But the boy…I don't know how other men might react to the first sight of their firstborn, but to me—it was as though my heart were a house, in which I had lived all my life, using only a few rooms, never knowing that all along, there was a vast suite waiting to be occupied, until I saw him, and he flung open the door to it.

He and I had spoken without so much as a glimpse at each other. Neither of us had wanted to be seen. That was only to be expected.

I felt an actual physical ache when I looked at him, when I talked to him. It was partly sympathy and sorrow, that he should be cursed with a face so like mine. He would suffer so terribly in the years to come!

It was also love, pride and hope. Hope that he would thrive and lead a better life than mine had been—pride in that he was intelligent, talented, and warm-hearted. I could have been warm-hearted, once. He was the only creature on this earth that was kin to me, as well, in so many ways. How could I not love him? I would love him even if he were not mine.

I heard voices approaching. M'sieu Hussenot—and two women who sounded oddly familiar.

"What a lovely potager! It reminds me of the one at Villandry, only in miniature." said a young woman.

"If you wait for the Emperor, you could_ live_ at Villandry." retorted an older woman. Madame Giry! I would know her voice anywhere. Then the younger woman must be…

"Mother! I don't _want_ to live at Villandry! I want to live with _Stephan_." fumed Meg Giry. "I'm quite happy to accept a baron. It's a much better marriage than I ever truly hoped to make."

"You'll please yourself, I'm sure." Madame Giry sniffed.

Monsieur Hussenot was apparently taken aback by this display of familial disharmony. I could hear it in his voice when he said, "Indeed, I believe the garden at Villandry was an inspiration behind this one. Madame Touchet planned it; it's hers, you see, and she lived near Villandry for a while, when she was a girl."

"Really?" asked Meg. "That's interesting. Thinking it over, I'm not sorry Madame Touchet refused my offer."

"Neither am I," chuckled M'sieu Hussenot. "We'd be hard put to replace her."

"I'm thinking more practically. Madame Touchet has more curves than a scenic route. It wouldn't do for Stephan to start taking an interest in more than her cooking! What is a woman who looks like that doing here, anyway? Are the men around here blind?"

"She is married." M'sieu Hussenot pointed out, "even if her husband is in America. Besides, there is another difficulty. Do you see the child over by those trees, hunting for eggs? That's her son."

"But—He's—Oh, that poor little boy! That poor woman!" marveled Mademoiselle Giry.

"They're not so bad off. Now, here's the cottage. I'm afraid I can't show you around the inside today—"

"Why not? I particularly wanted to see it." she asked.

"It's rented out, to an invalid gentleman and his two Mohammedan servants."

I reflected that it would be amusing to see Nadir's face if he heard himself referred to as my servant.

"Do you suppose they'll be gone by June 29th?" worried Meg.

"It's over a month away, so I have every expectation that they will be. The gentleman's health seems to be improving fast." M'sieu Hussenot soothed her.

"That's good. So, tell me about it, since I can't see it." she demanded.

"It's fully modern inside, with electricity in all the rooms, running water with hot and cold laid on, two bathrooms, servant's quarters are in the main house, so you'll have your privacy. There's a dining room, a sitting room and four bedrooms. The cottage rental includes privileges the guests in the main house don't—you can walk in the woods attached to the inn, enjoy the kitchen garden and the orchard, and , if you follow the stream, it leads to a lily pond—almost a small lake, really. There are some pretty walks around there, and we have a few small boats you can use, if you wish. You can picnic anywhere you like. Madame Hussenot will fix you a basket, if you let her know. Now, I'll let you wander around the grounds by your selves for a while before lunch", he improvised, and left. I could hear his footsteps crunching on the gravel.

"Maman, can't you at least be a little glad for your girl? I love Stephan, and I would even if he weren't a Baron. I love him, moods, thinning hair and all. Forget what the Ghost said—you know he was only a strange, ugly man who was in love with Christine, after all!"

How are the mighty fallen!

Silence from Mother Giry, for a long moment. I could hear them walking away. Then, as her voice began to recede, I heard her reply, "Not 'only', Meg…"

So, little Meg was getting married! Apparently, she was doing so here. I felt positively avuncular about it. The Opera Ghost would have to make a reappearance, if only to send a note wishing her well. Madame Giry had taken that note of so many years ago as a prophecy rather than the possibility I had intended. Perhaps she had ignored the question marks at the end.

And the happy event was to take place in a little over a month…I could only wonder where I would be living then.

* * *

**A/N:** The vegetable garden at Villandry is the classic example of the type of kitchen garden that Anne has at the inn, only much larger and fancier. Villandry's potager is four or five times larger than Anne's. There are great pictures of it on the web. Any search engine should be able to find them with the words 'vegetable garden Villandry.'

The condition of **false pregnancy**, also known as 'phantom pregnancy' (a term I felt didn't work well in this fic, for obvious reasons) is uncommon but occurs in many mammals, including but not limited to cats, dogs, _**and humans**_. It is a mysterious condition sometimes brought on by hormonal imbalances, but which often happens simply because ofa thwarteddesire to have a baby. Sufferers can exhibit all the physical symptoms of pregnancy, including the swelling of the abdomen, morning sickness, swollen breasts that lactate, hallucinations of movements in the womb, and hysterical childbirth. It is becoming rarer in first world countries because of technologies that can prove the falsehood early on.

My shout-outs: I don't know if I can do them all, but please don't feel slighted if I don't fit you in. There are getting to be more of them with every update.

Yes,** Belle**, I would _love_ to see those pictures. I can't draw, and I'm in awe of those who can. The only problem is—I don't have your E-mail address, either! Mine is simple—it's Gevaisa aol . com. The spaces are there so fanfiction doesn't automatically delete the address. Please send them to me.

**A.—**Thanks! Sometimes I get an image of fangirls swarming over him and ignoring the perfect dimpled little charmer with the golden hair and blue eyes. Who wants to coo over the baby fop when you can pinch the cheek of the little guy who lights up when you give him just a little love? Any soppy fluff will only be in contrast to an emotional disaster that will follow on its heels—got to keep the rollercoaster going, after all.

**Erik's Girlfriend**—I'm doing my best on the updates. You can expect Erik to do a lot of waffling on the subject of Anne for a while—especially after he visits Lyons. Big stuff a-brewin' there…

**Danielle Destler:** Well, I didn't say there would be**_ no_** soppy, fluffy love. I just said it wouldn't be **_soon._**

**Nota Lone:** And also: will we ever find out who his mother is, for certain? Maybe even I don't know…..(evil laugh.)

**Sat-Isis:** But you pout so cutely!

**ButterflyGuitar:** I'll try to avoid that type of ending, and salt small revelations throughout.

**Pickledishkiller**: have fun at camp!

**Lindaleriel**: I will do my best to treat Raoul with dignity. I promise.

**SperryDee:** DPX is just blocked at the moment. I'm sorry. The muse for that fic seems to be taking a vacation, while this one is on overtime.

**Josette:** Of all the pictures you sent, the one of the library has me most envious.

**Lucia**: I'm so glad you're back! Did you like chapters 12 and 13? Don't you dare stay away in the future, you hear?

Thank you to **HDKingsbury (Lml forever!), Sue Raven, Lexi, Thornwitch, Invader Vega, Emily, Dernhelm, Fishy, Kei, Flamingices, and Phantom Raver** ( and my apologies if I missed anyone!)


	18. Blueberry Pie

**Erik:**

Lunch was a substantial soup accompanied by sandwiches on crusty fresh bread, followed by a surprising blueberry pie. It was surprising in that the blueberries were not embedded in sweet glue colored with blue-black Indian ink, which had been my previous experience of blueberry pie, nor did the crust seem to be made of soggy cardboard. It was tasty, not too sweet, fresh, and the crust was delicate. I ate alone in my room, where I perused the train schedule provided by Nadir. I took only small portions, at least until the pie.

From the table by the window, I could see a pair of little brown wrens swooping back and forth from the garden to a bird house, beaks laden with insects. Every time one of them disappeared into the house, they were greeted with a chorus of cheeping. Someone else was having lunch at the same time I did. I tore a crust from my sandwich and shredded it, then tossed the crumbs out to them. My humble offering was acceptable; almost immediately, one of the wrens pecked up a morsel and flew with it to her nest of little ones. Wrens are tiny and humble looking, rather drab little birds, but they are blessed with sweet voices.

I turned back to the train schedule. Nadir did not intend that I should go to Lyons alone; that was clear to me. I was determined to make my trip unaccompanied, however, and to accomplish that, I would have to leave before he thought I was strong enough to do it.

That meant going tonight, and I was pleased to see that there was a nine o'clock train. The inhabitants of the kitchen house got up early and went to bed early, so I could listen to the boy play his violin, wait for darkness to fall completely, and then walk down to the train station. The ticket office would be closed, but that need not stop me, as I could purchase a ticket directly from the conductor. In two hours, I and my lock picks would be in Lyons.

If all went well and I could find out all I needed to, I would be back in time for a late breakfast in the morning. If not—if I had to wait until the offices were open and there were people about to answer questions, I would simply make sure to leave in time to be back for dinner and the ante-dinner concert.

I planned to visit the registry office and the offices of the law firm that managed this inn from a distance for the unknown owner. I hoped I could learn all I wanted to from the register of marriages and the legal files, but I was plagued by a morose premonition that it would not be as simple as that. Nothing concerning Anne and the boy was simple.

My plans required two masks, one of them a black mask, for the breaking and entering I planned to do, and the other, the most lifelike of my new masks, for traveling on the train and for dealing with people during the day, when and if necessary.

Since I anticipated having to deal with other people anyway, perhaps I would take care of another matter: my need for liquid funds. The remainder of my money would not hold out indefinitely, and the inn would want the cottage back eventually. I had one last treasure: Ayesha's diamond collar.

I took it from its hiding place, and turned it over in my hands. The diamonds were large, well-cut, and perfectly matched. They were of the first water; purest blue-white and they had no flaws evident to my unaided eye. My sight is exceptionally sharp. This little collar was worth a fortune. The brilliancy of the early afternoon sun upon the stones stabbed at my eyes, each stone a little assassin, and cast splinters of rainbow across the green walls.

I did not have it made for her; I had stolen it almost a lifetime ago, from around the neck of the Sultan's favorite pet cat. I was so much younger and brasher then, I had to smile at my own arrogance. Despite periods of need, I had never sold it, never pawned it—although what pawnbroker could have handled it? It was too valuable. I had meant to keep it forever—and so I might have, were it not for the boy, were it not for my son.

It might be worth a million francs; perhaps more. The nature of the market for diamonds—especially second-hand diamonds—was such that I would be lucky to realize a third of its value, but a third of a million francs would be more than enough to buy a house here in Evrondes, and to set myself up as an architect once more. I wanted, I _needed_ to live where I could watch him grow up.

My first idea had been to buy the inn itself, but I rejected that, as in all probability it belonged to the Comte de Chagny. Not that that would make it undesirable, but I wanted to remain invisible. An offer from an anonymous buyer would arouse suspicion.

Yes, I would take the collar, and if the opportunity presented itself, I would sell it.

Ayesha would be no less beautiful without it.

It was almost the appointed hour for Madame Hussenot's visit. I was getting used to talking to new people, especially when I could do so from behind bed curtains. I had learned an important thing: people like to talk about themselves, and they like to show off how much they know. As long as I indulged them in those areas, they were very talkative. I merely had to direct the conversation now and then. I drew the curtains almost closed, checked the placement of the chair, adjusted it, and waited.

I could see Madame Hussenot quite well from my place in bed. She was about sixty, plump, and feminine, a fluttery woman with incongruously small hands and feet. She wore a light colored dress with a small floral print, trimmed with lace. I, with my newly acquired knowledge of lace, wondered if it were hand made or machine lace. I suspected the latter.

Her hair was fluffy, and continued to be brown with the aid of dye. She had not committed the fault most ageing women do, which is to dye the hair too dark and harsh a shade. That adds years to a woman's appearance rather than subtracting them.

"Good afternoon, Madame." I began.

"Good afternoon, M'sieu Makepeace."

"Thank you for taking the time to come and talk to me."

"It is no trouble at all, sir"

An awkward silence followed. I did not know how to begin. It was her age and sex that were the problem; had she lived, my mother would have been about the age of Madame Hussenot. That was what was causing this uncharacteristic paralysis of my tongue.

"Forgive me." I finally said. "I have always been reticent when speaking with ladies. Perhaps if you were to begin by telling me how inn keeping suits you?"

"Oh. Very well. It isn't what I had been expecting to do with what you might call my evening years, but…"

Her account was not so different from her husband's, but what interested me was her body language and her facial expressions, which conveyed as much as her tongue did. She hardly ever stopped moving—she spoke with her hands and even her feet. When she spoke of her granddaughters' mother, the corner of her mouth twisted and jagged downward in a manner that spoke of her deep disgust.

All in all, I gathered that she was content with her life as an innkeeper. She smiled widely when she told me how she chose and arranged the flowers that graced the inn; when she complained about the maids, she might have _said_, "I can hardly take my eyes off them for a minute, or they're shirking their duties!", but her tone of voice conveyed that she liked having a staff to terrorize, and she was proud of the cleanliness she imposed upon her domain.

"I send reports to the owner every month, and he's always gracious enough to reply through the lawyer's office, and he tells me how he appreciates my efforts." she told me.

"That's a law firm in Lyons, I believe? Which one is it that handles the inn's business? I know a lawyer there…" I asked. I needed to know in order to visit that evening.

"It's the firm of Alphonse Bontriomphe and Son." she answered.

"No, he's not the one." I said. "But do go on."

"As I was saying, the owner appreciates what I do. I think he must stop here every now and then, incognito, as it were, because sometimes he comments on things he could only know if he saw them himself. Such as, when we changed from heavy winter curtains and carpets over to summer sheers and grass-cloth rugs, he's said the green bindings I chose were very harmonious. That shows the very particular sort of attention he pays to things around here. It's quite flattering."

"Do you agree with your husband, in that the inn was bought to showcase the culinary talents of Madame Touchet?"

"Yes—but—," she paused. "M'sieu Hussenot is really such an innocent in some ways. He's willing to believe any story that comes from a pretty face."

"How so?"

She leaned forward and lowered her voice to tell me confidentially, "I know something about the world, and while I would never say _anything_ against Madame Touchet—she's a fine woman, a good mother, and an excellent cook—I don't believe there is a Monsieur Touchet. I don't think there ever _was_ one."

That seemed to call for a response from me. "Oh, dear."

"Yes. Now, while I only know a little about her past, I know she spent about a year, between the time she left the Comte de la Fere's, and the time she came here, in_ Paris_! And we all know what Paris is like! They live such dissipated lives there—all for pleasure, nothing but pleasure. It's full of wolves and mashers and worse. Now when a gentleman who's truly a gentleman takes a respectable girl for a mistress, when he's bored with her, or if she gets in the family way, he doesn't just abandon her. He sets her up in business, a little hat shop, say, or something like that."

"And you think that may be the case with Madame Touchet? She is quite young to be discarded so."

"True. In her case, it must have been the child. You've seen him, of course. I think his father took one look at him and was appalled, then realized _she_ was so dotty over the boy she'd never give him up, and packed them both off to the country here."

"Has she not said he looks like his father?"

"Oh, I don't believe that. I think that's just a blind, to throw off talk about who his father is. Of course, she has to account for that face _somehow_ or other. It's a great shame that he should have to suffer with a face like that, but fix the name of Erik Touchet in your memory, sir—,"

I would have no difficulty doing that.

"—because he's going to be something in this world, just wait and see."

That was precisely what I intended to do.

She was still speaking. "All in all, I think Madame Touchet's done very well for herself, and the only place where we don't see eye-to-eye is over her kitchen maids."

"Why is that?"

"Well, you may not know it, but the one she has right now is simple-minded. Minna's rather sweet, and she's no problem at all, but the others! She's had up to three at one time. The worst of them left only two months ago. _Her_ name was Lucille. She was fired outright after she stole half-a-dozen bottles of the best wine. We found her and her lover, who was a representative of a manufacturer of artificial essence of jasmine, passed out in a vacant bedroom of the inn. I think Madame Touchet would have been lenient with her—taken it out of Lucille's wages—except that Lucille said such things about her when she came around! Madame Touchet gets all her kitchen maids through a convent charity home. I think it's connected somehow to the hospital where she had the boy."

A hospital! I suspected it would turn out that Christine had spent time in that hospital, too, overlapping with Anne's stay there.

"She takes these girls as an act of charity, because most of them are unwed mothers who haven't a reference anymore—they're fired when their employers find out about the pregnancy, and the charity takes them in and sees to the adoptions. When they're well enough to work and they need jobs, some of them come here. They never stay long. Just long enough for Anne to be able to write them an honest reference. I've told her if she wants to be charitable, she should just send the convent something at Christmas and Easter, but she can be very close with her money in some ways. It's an odd way of fulfilling one's charitable obligations."

Charity? No, to me this smelled of recompense. A favor done for a favor received. Someone at that hospital must have looked the other way—someone might have helped when the boy was born, aided them with their plan… What form would Christine's recompense take? The patronage and sponsorship of a wealthy Countess would be a good thing for any charity.

While I considered that, Madame Hussenot continued to talk about Anne's difficulty in finding good employees. She concluded that in taking on young and malleable relatives, Anne was on to something that worked. I interrupted.

"What about her sister? Martine Norbert?" I inquired.

"She was a piece of work, that one! As different from Madame Touchet as two sisters could be—except in looks. The Norberts all have a strong family resemblance to each other. Martine ran through money like it was water—The oddest thing, though, was that she had this melancholy about her—If I didn't know better, I would have said it was that depression some women go through after they've had a baby."

That was the last significant piece of innuendo Madame Hussenot had to offer. Before long, she took her leave. I had not learned many actual facts from her, but what I had discovered was interesting. The convent hospital was far away—almost on the Swiss border. I would have bet money that Jules' letter, when it came, would divulge the information that the Chagny's eldest child was born there also.

* * *

Astonishingly Good Blueberry Pie:

This pie owes its uniqueness to the relatively small amount of sugar used in proportion to the berries, and to the nut-crumb crust, which is uncommon.

Crumb Crust/Topping:

1 cup (about 4 ounces) skinless slivered or sliced almonds

1 ½ teaspoons grated lemon peel (fresh is best, dried from the supermarket is fine)

2 cups all purpose flour

½ cup and 2 tablespoons granulated sugar

¾ cup (1 ½ sticks) very cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces—if you cut it up, wrap it in plastic wrap, and stick it in the freezer for half an hour, that will be ideal

Blueberry Filling:

½ cup granulated sugar

1 ½ tablespoons cornstarch

2 pints fresh blueberries

You will need an 8 or 9 inch tart pan to bake this in.

Begin by toasting the nuts in a small non-stick frying pan on top of the stove. Toasting the nuts brings out their flavor. Most recipes call for toasting the nuts in the oven, but I have found that method is imprecise and often results in overdone nuts. Heat the nuts over medium heat, stirring constantly, until they turn a light brown. This will happen suddenly. Remove them from the heat and allow them to cool.

When they are cool, grind them, along with two tablespoons of granulated sugar, in a food processor. Watch them carefully to make sure they are not over-ground, or they will become nut butter. Add the flour, the rest of the sugar for the topping, and the lemon peel, and pulse to combine. Add the cold butter, and process until the dough looks like coarse crumbs.

Using your fingers, press half the dough into the bottom and sides of the tart pan.

Refrigerate the pan and the other half of the dough while you complete the next step.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Rinse the berries and pick them over, removing all stems and all the spoiled berries. There are always some. Reject any that are moldy or funny-colored. Soft berries are marginally okay, mushy ones are not. Take out the unripe ones as well.

In a medium bowl, mix the cornstarch and the sugar for the filling. Gently stir in the berries. Get the pan and dough from the refrigerator, and spoon the filling into the tart pan, spreading it evenly.

Sprinkle the berry mixture with the remaining topping, crumbling it in your fingers if necessary.

Bake until topping is golden and the filling is bubbly, about 30 minutes. Remove from the oven. Cool on a wire rack for at least ten minutes. Serve warm or at room temperature.

* * *

**A/N:** I have gone back ad fine-tuned some things in earlier chapters. For example, in Chapter two, Breakfast, there is now a new section of dialog between Erik and Nadir, in which Nadir reveals that they are in the Grey Goose Inn, in the (fictional) town of Evrondes, in the (real) province of Picardy, details I had not come up with when I originally wrote it. I have made changes to the Author's notes in Chapters 1 and 17 which will have some bearing later on. Re-reading them is a good idea, as the denouement will hinge at least somewhat on these things. I have made no major changes, nor altered the main story in any way except to add the dialog I mentioned previously.

**Sue Raven:** As you can see, Erik is trying to prepare for the future. He will be surprised, however.

**Emily:** Wow! Welcome to FF net. What a compliment. Thanks.

**Diana:** Thanks. I don't like most OWs either.

**Allegratree:** I had been thinking that Meg got her information about Erik from gossip and rumor, not Christine, but I didn't put that in. Maybe I'll change that. I like leek-and-potato soup, too. I like practically all soups.

**Lucia:** I'll have look for that movie you mentioned. Even if it's depressing, it sounds interesting. Maybe we should start talking through e-mail.

**HDKingsbury:** I'm glowing—thanks!

**ButterflyGuitar:** I'll keep it up as long as I can—I will never explain _everything_.

**An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin**: Have you been taking your medication? If not, don't you think you should? If you have, I think you should talk to your doctor…. ;-)

**Josette:** Thanks! I always loved a good mystery, and now I have the fun of writing one.


	19. The Daroga and the Cook

**Anne: **

I passed the bench in the kitchen garden three times, going back and forth, inside of an hour, and M'sieu Khan didn't budge as much as an inch in all that time. He looked as if he had a bellyful of matters to think over, and they were giving him indigestion.

I was feeling a touch guilty over the hundred extra francs I'd tacked on his bill, being brassed off over how close he'd questioned me at our first meeting. I'd thought for sure he would have taken it up with M'sieu Hussenot, and gotten half of it knocked off the bill. It seemed as if he'd paid it without a murmur of complaint.

That was why, on my way back to the kitchen with a basket of carrots and parsley, I stopped and asked him, "Is somewhat the matter, sir? You looks as though you're troubled.

"I? No, Madame. I thank you for your concern, however." he returned.

"If you're sure…Might you care for a cup of tea in my kitchen, sir?"

He thought it over a space. "Will it show up on my bill?" he asked, with a twinkle in his eye and his voice.

I flushed. "No, sir, it will not."

"Then I will accept." He followed me back to the kitchen.

"I needs the parsley now, Mam!" sang out my little boy. "It's time to squidge the meat together!" He and Minna were poised over the bowl with clean hands and clean aprons on.

"Just let me rinse and chop it, dearheart." I told him. "Amelié, put the kettle on, there's a love. Happens as it'll take a while for that tea, M'sieu Khan. Sit down and make yourself to home."

"Thank you, Madame."

There wasn't much I could do with that load of fatty chickens but prepare them in ways to get rid of the most grease. We'd skinned and boned the lot, trimmed off as much fat as we could, and ran it through the grinder. Some of it became sausage; some was going to be meatballs in soup. That was what Erik and Minna was waiting on.

I swept the chopped parsley into the big bowl with the rest of the ingredients. "Squidgy!" cried Erik, and reached in with both hands, squeezing ground meat out from between his fingers like pink worms. I knows what children like, and I never knew one as didn't like to make mud pies. Mixing up meatballs and meatloaf with their bare hands is the next best thing to it. Soon he and Minna were filling a baking pan with balls.

I poured boiling water over the mint leaves in my biggest teapot, and got out cups and saucers. "When you be done there, and your hands is clean, I've got a surprise for you two—and Ame, too."

"What is it?" asked my son.

"If I told before it was time, it wouldn't be no surprise, now would it, love?"

"Aww!" he groaned.

I made a dishful of soapsuds, and got out a spool of soft wire and the cutters. I cut six lengths, and set about putting big round loops in one end of three of them, and small loops in their other ends. The magazine I got told all about this, and other things for children to play at.

"I'm all done, Mam! And I got clean hands, look!" He stretched out two damp and shining palms for me to see. I kissed one and then the other, smelling soap and not meat. Good; he'd washed. He giggled.

"I'm ready, too, Aunt." Ame chimed in.

"We got to go out in the yard for me to show you." I led the three of them outside. "See these?" I held out the three wands. "You dip the big end in the soapsuds, and blow through the loop, like this—," and I showed them.

A stream of bubbles floated out over the yard, shimmering like rainbows.

"Ohhh!" It came out of all three throats as if they was one. "Can I do that, Mam?"

"I want a turn, too!" said Ame, and Minna opened and closed her hand as if to ask for it.

"That's why I got three here." I said, and passed the first to Erik.

"If you blow slow, you can make bigger bubbles." I showed Ame, and gave her a wand.

"And if you wave it not too fast or slow, you can make lots and lots of little ones." I gave the last to Minna. "And these three bits of wire is for you to make your own in different shapes, so's you can see what happens if you make a square or a triangle to blow bubbles with."

"That's easy!" scoffed Erik. "You'd get square and triangle bubbles!"

"You'll have to see, now, won't you, love?" I left them to it, and went back in to M'sieu Khan. Sophie was napping by the door, and Claude was off sneaking a smoke with one of the stable hands. He didn't know I knew he did it; I was going to have to have a talk with him about it. Smoking kills the palate. It's not a vice for a cook to have.

I poured the tea. "Thank you, Madame Touchet." he said. "Yours is a very happy family."

"That's true, sir, and I thank you. Would you care for a piece of almond shortbread?"

"Thank you."

Out in the yard, I could hear Truffle's happy bark. I looked out to see her leaping around and trying to bite the bubbles. "Wheee!" shrieked my boy. I smiled to myself.

"Perhaps now you might unburden yourself a bit, sir. I don't know nobody as isn't the better for talking about their worries." I sat down with my own cup.

"You have me, Madame." He sounded resigned, but with that twinkle under it still. "You ply me with tea and sweets, and I find I cannot resist…I am worried about my friend, M'sieu Makepeace."

"Has he taken a turn for the worse so soon? Poor man, I was in hopes as he was on the mend."

"Physically he is improving—I was thinking of his heart and spirit, and that is a different matter. But I don't want to take you from your work."

"I've a quarter of an hour as is yours if you want to bend my ear." I told him.

"Bend your ear?" he asked.

"Talk to me, I mean." I said. "Is his trouble something as our Father Anselm could help him with?"

"I fear not…M'sieu Makepeace is a man without a family—or, at this moment, an occupation. Idleness does not suit him, nor does solitude. Together, they are the worst things in the world for him—he dwells on dark matters, and broods himself into morbid humors. I am the only friend he has—and I cannot alleviate his sorrows. I can only minister to his mind and his body—when he will permit it."

"What manner of occupation has he had before?" I asked.

"He's a musician." M'sieu Khan took a swallow of tea. "But I fear his heart has gone out of music."

"That's sad…I don't know what I'd do if ever my heart went out of cooking. Turn my face to the wall, most like. What do you think would help him?"

"In all honesty, Madame? I think he ought to marry, and have a family—but prudently. He was close to it at one time. Alas, the young lady was too highly strung. She rejected him—I think if they had married, it would not have prospered. He—needs a wife who would have something to give in return."

"That's a great shame. What sort of woman would you like to see him marry?" I had the inkling as I was being led somewheres. Had M'sieu Makepeace sent him here to sound me out, to find if I was willing to warm up his bed for him of nights?

"Someone capable—warm-hearted, generous-hearted—with a deep well of strength to draw on. He has a great deal to give—his heart could encompass the world, if the world would only have him. I would like to see him marry someone a great deal like you—but you are already married. I haven't forgotten. I would not want you to break your vows for anything. Or anyone. Not for anything would I have you love anyone but the man whose name you bear—but…" He let that trail off. "I will bid you good day, and take my leave of you, Madame Touchet."

He left then, and I was left with an uneasy tickle in the pit of my stomach. I don't know just what he was telling me, underneath, but it made me shiver.

Then Erik burst in, all excitement. "Mam! I made a square wand, and it blows round bubbles, too! Why's that, Mam?"

"I don't know, love, indeed I don't." There was a lot I didn't know…

* * *

**Meatball Soup (which pleases kids from beginning to end, without fail);**

Meatballs:

1 cup seasoned breadcrumbs

½ cup parmesan cheese

¼ cup chopped parsley, dried, or ½ cup, fresh

2 tablespoons water—if using dried parsley, 1 tablespoon if fresh

1 teaspoon dried basil

1 teaspoon black pepper

1 pound ground chicken, turkey, or ground beef, as you prefer

1 large egg

Cooking spray.

Soup:

2 teaspoons olive oil

1 cup chopped onion

3 cloves of garlic, minced

1 cup chopped carrot

½ cup chopped celery

2 cups tomato juice or vegetable juice blend such as V-8 juice

½ cup chopped bell pepper

½ cup frozen green beans or peas

½ cup frozen sweet corn

1 teaspoon dried basil

1 teaspoon dried oregano

1/8 teaspoon black pepper

4 cups or 2 cans broth—chicken if using chicken or turkey, beef if using beef

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.

Prepare meatballs by having a small child squidge together all the meatball ingredients (except the cooking spray) in a large bowl by hand. Make sure his or her hands are clean before hand. (If you have no small children on hand, you will have to do this yourself.)

Spray a 13 x 9 baking pan with cooking spray, and have it close by.

Shape the meat into meatballs about 1 inch in diameter, and put them in the prepared baking pan. Bake them at 375 F for twenty minutes. If greasy, drain on paper towels like bacon.

Prepare soup by heating the oil in a large soup pot, and sauté the onion, garlic, carrots and celery until they are translucent. Add the meatballs and all the rest of the ingredients. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer for 15 minutes.

Serve with hearty bread.

* * *

**A/N**: Hello everyone! Sorry this update took so long to get here, but I went on a trip to New York City this week. 

**Josette:** I'm doing my best! That's for you, too, **Sarah Crawford**!

**Bella**—you still out there? I've missed you lately.

**Lucia:** Yes, little Erik does lighten up the story. I really enjoy thinking up what he does and says, even when his role in a chapter isn't that big.

**Nota Lone:** How did the finals go? Sorry about the headache…

**C Dragonstone**: Thanks! Did you finish it? (Does the puppy dog eyes thing)

**Thornwitch:** Whoa! I would love that raspberry pie recipe. My e-mail is Gevaisa AOL . com.

**ButterflyGuitar:** The journey to Lyon will begin next chapter, I promise.

**An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin**: OOOokay… (backs away slowly)

**Allegratree:** Wow—what dedication! Thanks! As far as Erik noticing Madame Hussenot's hair color—my husband is very anti-hair color and anti-makeup, and occasionally mentions an especially unflattering example, so I threw that in. I think Erik is always making aesthetic judgments, too.

Hello to **Awoman**—sorry I couldn't post so fast this time. How have you been? I've missed you.

Hello, **HDKingsbury**—and I really will sit down and email you soon. Possibly when pigs fly, the way things have been lately. :p

**Alittlerayofsunshine**: You live up to your penname, as far as I'm concerned. :-)

And let me not forget **Phantom Raver**! Hello!


	20. A Little Night Musician

**Erik:**

Nadir and I sat by the windows in my room and waited. Outside, dusk was falling; the last warm tones of sunset were lingering in the sky, to no avail. Night was winning. I could hear footsteps approaching from the garden—at least two sets of human feet, and the faster syncopation of a creature with four. Anne, the boy, and Truffle?

Apparently so. My son said, "You can stay and listen, Truffle, but you got to keep quiet."

"I'll be here by her." said Anne. "Go on and play, love."

He must have done most of his tuning up indoors, but that slight difference in temperature and humidity between there and here had affected the strings just enough that he had to test and adjust them all again. The instrument itself was a mediocre one; its tone was not good.

Then he began to play, the first notes a little unsure, uneven, but then the thread of melody became gold, like the ugly little spinner of the fairytale who can take a handful of straw and make it into something of beauty and value.

For the most part, it was not what he played that was so remarkable—sentimental ballads, country airs, traditional folk tunes, a scrap of Mozart that wandered in from somewhere. Bach: _Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring, _which he must have heard in church, a smattering of other hymns… It was his playing. His touch was sure and confident, his technique skilled—and that was before one took into account the fact that he was not yet four.

I went back in my mind and worked out that his birthday must fall sometime near the end of June, which was next month. I had to get him a better instrument than that one, it sounded as if it was made of industrial-grade plywood. He would be turning four.

I had to close my eyes as a wave of complex emotions flooded me. As disastrous as the event may have been, he had been conceived in love, and Christine had loved him enough and loved me enough to find for him, not simply any woman who would agree to take him in for money, but Anne Norbert. I felt an inexpressible tenderness and gratitude toward Christine, and it broke my heart all over again, for I would almost certainly never get to thank her or tell her how much he, and what she had done for him, meant to me.

Then my feelings spiraled outward to encompass Anne as well, with her extraordinary heart. How was it possible to love so many people so much, and all at once, and not explode? Christine, Erik, and Anne, all three together.

I looked over at Nadir, whose expression proclaimed him to be far away mentally. In the past, perhaps, with his late wife and his dead son?

For once, I did not know which of us was to be more pitied, he whose beloveds had died so long ago and far away, but whose love he had had in such great measure—or I, whose loved ones lived so near, yet beyond my touch…

Erik played those worn, old, familiar melodies as if they were paint fresh and new—and then he played something that really was new, a simple lilting tune that became more complex as he made variations on it. It wound down into a whispery end. His own work? Very likely… Silence reigned a long moment, until I filled it with applause. Nadir followed suit, and outside I heard first one, then another set of hands join in.

"Dearheart, you don't clap for yourself!" came Anne's voice, with a gurgle of laughter in it.

I heard a small "Oh.", and the applause diminished to three.

I clapped until my hands stung. When silence fell again, I heard my son ask his mother, "Shall I play again?"

"One more tune for your encore, and then it's off to bed for us. We've got a big day ahead, tomorrow."

"What should I play?" he asked.

"Somewhat to send us off to sleep. What about Lullalow?"

The lullaby came through to me from out of the darkness, drowsy and sweet. When it was done, we clapped again, not so raucously this time, and as they walked away, I heard her say, "That was beautiful. I'm right proud of you. You're the best boy there is, you know that?"

His answer was lost to me, but I could guess it. He would reply that she was the best mother, only of course he would say 'the best Mam!"

I had to remove my mask to wipe my face. I had been crying—again. This made twice in two days. I looked at Nadir. No lights were on in the room, but my night sight sufficed. He had passed his own handkerchief over his eyes.

"It does not matter if—or, rather, when—or where I may die, for the better part of me will still be in this world—and that is _not_ a declaration of suicidal thoughts, Daroga."

"I understood exactly what you meant." said Nadir, somewhat hoarsely.

We passed a few moments in a companionable silence.

"The boy and I," (I was not sure I could say 'my son' at that moment without bursting into tears.) "arranged for him to play tonight. Tomorrow night I will join in—and the day after, which will be Thursday, I will send a note to Anne—you will have to pen it for me—inquiring about giving the boy lessons."

"She will probably want to speak to you in person—and might insist on it being face-to-face."

"I will deal with that when and as it may occur." I informed him. "In the meantime, there is still more investigating to be done."

* * *

**A/N:** I know this is merely a scene, but the next one is so different in tone that I thought the effect of this part would be lost, so I decided to go ahead and post this, short as it is. The _next _chapter _will _see Erik Sr. on his way to Lyons! 

Wow! As of this writing, I have 228 reviews for 19 chapters! That's 12 reviews per chapter. Thanks to you all. I'm also approaching 9000 hits… I've been writing this story for almost four months now, and the end is not yet in sight!

Sorry, no recipe this time!

**The shout-outs:**

**Allegratree:** Yes, New York was wonderful! It should come as no surprise that among the things we did was go to a play, to museums, and find some extraordinarily good gelato. I considered your suggestion, and 'ticked' has become 'brassed', which, to me, sounds much more like Anne.

**C. Dragonstongue:** Got your review this afternoon. I love a good grovel… ;-) and I aim to please when I can. Hope you like this one…

**Sat-Isis:** Sorry about your computer. Don't you just love them?

**SperryDee:** I'm working on that chapter of DPX! Hope I'll finish it this weekend, but the Fantastic Four movie is coming out. I do like Doom…hugely intelligent men in masks, don't you know…

**Phantom Raver:** You'll have to get in line behind me for L'il Erik cuddling.

**Josette:** Was that a 'meatballs were heaven' as in, you loved what I wrote, or a 'meatballs were heaven' because you tried the recipe? Either way, thanks!

**MetalMyersJason:** heh-heh-heh…that's what _you_ think!

**Bella:** Oh, good! I missed you. Believe it or not, your review for chapter 18 came in _three minutes_ before I posted number 19!

**HDKingsbury**, you deserve a medal for patience. Consider it awarded—and get better!

**An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin:** I seem to have a psychotic reader on my hands in you…

And thanks to **Lindaleriel, Emily aka the Little Ray of Sunshine, Sue Raven, and Erik for President! Luv you all!**


	21. Night Train to Lyons

**Erik:**

I had made all the preparations I could—money, lock picks, rope—for what ever purpose I might see fit to put it to—a slouch hat that partly hid my face, a black mask in my pocket and the life-like one on my face, a notebook and pencil, and Ayesha's diamond collar concealed in the trick heel of my half-boot. It was not an obvious place any robber would look for valuables.

Now I lay on the bed and waited for a little more time to pass. I was hoping that Nadir and Darius would be asleep when I left—but in any event, I was planning to slip off via my bedroom window. The aches and pains of the morning had gone, or at least diminished significantly—for the most part, anyway. I had a massive bruise over one hip that would take days to fade.

Ayesha made a circuit of the room, looked at me, and complained. I wadded a bit of paper into a ball and tossed it; she made a 'Brr-miaow!' sound and batted it energetically around the room until she knocked it under the closet door. Nothing would do but that I had to retrieve it for her. Then she whacked it under the bed and disappeared after it.

I checked my watch. 8:15—the train would leave at nine. Time to move. I put a note for Nadir on the mantle, in case I should not get back in time for breakfast, and then went out the window, cautiously and carefully. Ayesha got past me, but I caught her and put her back inside—then closed the latch with a piece of bent wire from the outside.

My route down to the train station took me through the kitchen garden and past the kitchen house. I could not look at the oak tree from which I had fallen without wincing, just as I could not look at the soft glow of light from a second floor window without longing to witness this evening's bedtime rituals. But I went on.

The inn's remaining restaurant customers were straggling out as I passed the main house. That was a stroke of luck—instead of being a solitary, suspicious loiterer, I was one of several guests who dispersed into the night.

Some of them were headed in the same direction I was, down the hill, whether to catch a train or to go home. I fell in among them, and wended my way through the streets of Evrondes. They were neatly cobble stoned, and the houses and buildings I passed were made of good brick or native stone, with slate roofs and wooden shutters. Many had window boxes filled to overflowing with fragrant flowers that trailed down in their flourishing.

A right turn took us down a row of trim, tidy shops. I recalled what M'sieu Hussenot had said, that some of these shops owed their existence to the popularity of Anne's cooking, and the tourist trade she attracted. I wondered which ones those were. Next to the post office, there was a book shop which also advertised that it had fine stationary, penny candy, and toys. I could imagine Anne and my son stopping there. Next to it was a shoemaker's, which put me in mind of Amelié, and her three pairs of shoes—two for everyday, and a good pair for Sundays. After that there was a pharmacist's shop, which proudly announced on its sign that they carried 'fine soaps and other toiletries for the discerning lady and gentleman.' Then I was walking by a combination florist-newsstand, which stood right by the train station.

As I had anticipated, the ticket window was closed, but there was a sheltering pavilion with benches for the weary travelers, lit by an electric light. Some bewildered moths swooped around it and beat their wings in vain; I knew just how they felt.

I took a seat in the most shadowy part of the pavilion, and fell into speculation. What would it be like to live here? Not, of course, as Monsieur Touchet, the architect, Anne's husband and Erik's father, but as a reclusive, mysterious man who lived in a secluded house—but who paid his bills promptly and in full.

Ought I to take architecture once more? Might it not 'blow my cover', as it were? Someone might connect the architect with Anne's purported husband. I could hardly be a musician who never played for anyone—or a music teacher with only one student—that being my son—or a composer who nobody ever heard of. None of those would bring in money.

How else might I make a living? An intriguing idea occurred to me. Might there be a demand for someone who could do what I was now doing—investigating backgrounds, delving into mysteries, coming up with answers? Wealthy families—the sort who could afford hand-made Alençon lace—with marriageable daughters might well need a discreet, thorough investigation made of a prospective bridegroom, for example…

My fanciful train of thought was derailed by a pair of men who took the seats near me in the pavilion. "And I say that the food in the Grey Goose Inn is by no stretch of the imagination haute cuisine. Except perhaps the mustard soup, which would not have been out of place in Paris. And if the baked fish had not had garlic in that—that soufflé-like crust, it would have been quite an elegant dish."

That had my attention. I wanted to hear what they thought of Anne's cooking. It was like listening to opera-goers analyzing the performance.

"You don't know what you're talking about." scoffed the other. "I didn't see you having any trouble shoveling that meal into your face. You spooned up every bit of that crust, garlic and all. You put away five courses without any difficulty. If that wasn't your idea of haute cuisine, what is?"

"Le Lyon d'Arcy." the first man stated. "Boisselot's sauces are miracles of delicacy and refinement. No single note stands out overwhelmingly—especially not _garlic_. All is in perfect balance."

"No single note stands out overwhelmingly." his companion said, jocund mockery in his voice. "You're right about that—including the flavor of whatever's under the sauce. I had a beefsteak a la Boisselot there three weeks ago—or at least they said it was beefsteak. It might have been horsemeat, for all I could tell. Or old leather. I suspect whatever meat it was, it was going bad, because it didn't rest well on my liver. I had indigestion for three days afterward."

He noticed I was paying close attention to their conversation. "We're restaurant critics for Le Soleil." he explained. "Look—you came down from the Grey Goose, didn't you? What did you have for supper?"

I was surprised at how natural it felt to join in their conversation. Perhaps spending two days talking to strangers had helped. "Meatball soup, turkey cutlets in sage butter, a salad, green beans and new potatoes—." I answered.

"I had the turkey cutlets myself." he interrupted. "What did you think of them?"

"I thought they were very good. It seemed to me to be a well-balanced dish." I ventured. "I'm not an authority on food, but all the ingredients were perfectly fresh and wholesome. I'd have them again, with pleasure."

"There you have it," said the second critic to his friend, then addressed me again. "And how could you tell they were fresh? You could taste them. The turkey cutlets consisted of turkey meat, a little Marsala, bell pepper, sage, butter, a slice of cheese, and a touch of salt and pepper. Mushrooms would have worked just as well in place of the bell pepper. Now when you eat at Le Lyon d'Arcy, you'll find that Boisselot prides himself on sauces with twenty-eight ingredients or more, not including salt, pepper, and whatever the sauce is concealing."

"I'm not saying it's not good food!" protested the first critic. "I'm saying it's not haute cuisine. You know who they've got running the kitchen at the Grey Goose?"

"A twenty-year-old girl." I put in.

"Exactly! What is she going to know about the traditions of grand cuisine? She's a country girl cooking country food, for the most part, with a smattering of fancier recipes to round out her repertoire. I don't deny that it's flavorful and wholesome, but it lacks sophistication. And the wine cellar was a disappointment. That Riesling was third-rate—and I'm being kind."

"The food lacks nothing." asserted the second man. "I'll tell you what it is. It's your snobbery. If that girl was a thirty-year-old man from Paris, you'd be hailing him as a great discovery, a new star in France's culinary firmament—is that our train? Nice chatting with you, sir, but we must run!"

That had been quite an amusing interval, but I was glad to have peace and quiet again. What had I been thinking of? Becoming a professional investigator, that was it. Perhaps I should wait until after I had brought my own investigation to a successful conclusion—_if_ I did.

My train, the train to Lyons, pulled into the station, and I boarded a car that was nearly empty. I took a window seat, and, resting my chin on my hand, my arm on the window sill, I passed the two hours journey to Lyons. I stayed in that position almost the entire ride, stirring only to pay the conductor for my ticket. What was I doing? Remembering…

Afraid, perhaps, that afterward I would break my word and keep her with me, Christine had allowed me to come to her, one night, one hour, in the house where she lived with Madame Valerius. Of all the places for an assignation!

It had taken place, not in her room, but in an airless, crowded garret up in the attic. It usually served as a maid's bedroom, but the girl was away. Christine had let me in through the kitchen, a candle in her hand, and led me up three flights of stairs to that small, hard, lumpy bed where we had made a child together.

I remembered what she wore when she opened the door to that little room—a blue robe over a white nightgown, and her manner, which was both apprehensive and serene. I sat on the bed, and took off my mask. She gave me a long kiss on the lips before she closed the door and put out the candle, plunging the room into utter darkness. My night-sight is keen, but even I could see nothing. There was no window, no other source of light. I didn't need to see. I could hear. I could hear her moving around the room, the hiss of fabric as she removed her garments, the creak of the bed frame as she sat down beside me—and then I could feel her.

The preliminaries went well enough, I suppose. I was as new to it as she was. She was obviously of two minds about what she was doing—tense to the point of rigidity at first, but no sooner would she begin to respond with passion than she stiffened up again—or so it seemed to me. And she was so quiet…

At least I didn't hurt her too badly. She didn't start sobbing or clawing or pleading with me to stop.

It was all over very fast, which surprised her as much as it did me. All of that for something so brief, so quickly done with, for so little warmth.

She put her clothing back on, fumbling and groping around in the dark, before she lit the candle again. Her lovely face was so serious in the pool of light it shed.

"Did I hurt you?" I asked. Why does nature make sure the commencement for a woman is so difficult, so painful?

"Yes," she replied. "But not very much—and not for very long."

"I'm sorry," I said, desperately. I had thought that once we had accomplished that, it would have tied us together. Wasn't it half of what defined marriage?

The vows were one half, the act itself the other half. Either one alone was not binding.

"That's all right," she said, as if we were still unknown to each other.

If I had been able to make it wonderful for her, perhaps then…

"This was what you wanted, wasn't it?" she asked, anxiously.

"Yes," I said, with a heavy heart. I had been wrong—wrong to put so much hope behind this, wrong in what I had thought it would be, wrong in having done it at all.

"Then—I'm sorry, Erik, but you have to go now. You have to leave. Mama is a little deaf—but not completely. And she's not blind." She followed me down the stairs.

"Do you hate me?" I asked, at the door to the street.

"Oh, no!" she cried. She was happier now, relieved. Of course; I was leaving. "I could never hate you. And I'm glad—I'm glad I could give you what you wanted. But—" and she paused.

"But you're going to marry the boy." I didn't understand how she could be so unmoved, but perhaps she had steeled herself up to all this beforehand.

I was moved by it, though. How could I bear to be separated from her now? How could I just leave her—forever?

I had given my word.

I kept it.

Once again, I was prepared to wallow in the sure knowledge of how wretched and worthless I was—except that—from that act had come Erik, my son. I could not hold him and despair in my heart simultaneously. It was not possible.

He was going to do better than I had, I knew it already. Whatever happened to him, throughout his life, he _would_ do better. His face resembled mine—but his nature was calmer, gentler, more even and tranquil—more like Christine, perhaps, but mostly like Anne.

That was something to puzzle over—how much of a person's nature is inherited, like the color of one's hair, and how much is shaped by one's upbringing and experiences?

Anne had left as indelible a mark on the boy as my mother had left on me, but Anne was as different from my mother as bread is different from stone. For that matter, Anne was as different from Christine as a hedge rose is from a hot-house orchid.

The train was pulling into the station at Lyons; I pulled myself together and prepared to disembark.

* * *

Turkey Cutlets in Sage Butter:

Turkey cutlets are readily available cut and packaged in most large supermarkets today; Anne would have had to hack the meat up herself. Lucky us…

1 large bell pepper, either red, orange, or yellow as you prefer, cut into four wedges

2 teaspoons olive oil

4 turkey breast cutlets, ½ inch thick, about one pound's worth

2 teaspoons AND 2 tablespoons chopped fresh sage

½ teaspoon salt—if you are using cooking wine, which is pre-salted so people don't drink it for fun, skip this.

¼ teaspoon black pepper

4 slices of part-skim mozzarella cheese

¼ cup Marsala or Madeira wine—you can find cooking wine in most big supermarkets

¼ chicken broth

2 tablespoons butter

Extra sage leaves for garnish (optional)

Preheat broiler.

Place pepper wedges, skin side up, on a foil-covered baking sheet, and flatten them with your hand. They won't be perfectly flat, but that's okay. Stick them under the broiler until their skins are black and bubbly in places. You may have to rotate the pan so they are evenly blackened. It'll take about 10 minutes.

Put the blackened pepper wedges in a zip-top plastic bag, and let them cool. The steam will loosen the skins. When cool, slip the skins off, and discard them. They won't come off perfectly, but again, that's okay. Just so they're mostly gone.

Heat oil in a non-stick skillet over medium heat. Sprinkle the cutlets with the salt (if used), the pepper, and 2 TEAspoons of the chopped sage. You'll be using the 2 tablespoons later. Sauté the turkey for about 2 ½ minutes on each side, or until browned.

Top each cutlet with a roasted, peeled pepper wedge and one slice of cheese/ Add the wine and the broth to the pan. Cover and cook until the cheese melts. Remove the turkey from the pan with a slotted spatula, and keep warm.

Bring the broth and Marsala mixture to a boil. Remove from the heat. Add the 2 tablespoons of chopped sage and the 2 tablespoons of butter to the pan, and stir or whisk until well blended. Pour the sauce over the cutlets before serving. Put a fresh sage leaf or two on each for pretty, if you like. Very simple and astonishingly good.

* * *

**A/N:** First of all, let me go around and virtual hug all my folk who've been away for weeks and weeks.

**Ellen**, here's a hug for you. (squish!) I'm glad you're back. Any interesting stories to tell?

And one for you, **Lexi**, (squeeze!)—yes, I did miss you!

And one for **Pickledishkiller**! (glomp!) I missed you, too.

BTW, Dear Professor Xavier isn't moved officially, yet. I am posting a bit of it under X-Men to see if it takes off. I think this is technically wrong, so please don't tell.

**Sat-Isis: **Actually, yes, Bella A. did a beautiful portrait of Anne. I'll look up your email and send it to you.

**MetalMyersJason:** I might be serious—or I might be messing with you. (heheh!)

**HDKingsbury:** That's one of the greatest things about the Internet—it makes research into things like plywood so simple and painless. I love it.

**Allegratree:** Thank you for the information—and for the e-mail help too. I'll keep that in mind as I write future chapters—and you've given me good ideas for the scene with the music-master from the church.

**Bella:** I hope this one has enough substance to tide you over until the next, which will be about how Erik Sr's investigation proceeds—expect some shocks!

**SperryDee:** I love your plan! How did it go off? I saw the movie, and I thought it was dumb but fun. Doom is better in the comics.

**An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin**: Yes! Here is your update! _Please_ don't hurt me!

And of course, thank you to : **Ilsa, Sue Raven, Sarah Crawford, Phantom Raver, and Erik for President!**


	22. A Revelation

**A/N:** In which we find out one of the things Anne feels guilty about.

* * *

**Erik**:

Lyons being a city of some size, there was an attendant on duty at the train station until midnight. I asked him a few questions, and discovered that the law offices of Bontriomphe and Bontriomphe were located in the same area of the city as the registrar of births, marriages and deaths. Not a surprise; it was the professional/governmental quarter of the town. I decided to take a hansom cab, both for the sake of expediency as well as my sore muscles.

The cab dropped me at the intersection half a street away from the registry office, at my request. If, as it might be, I left things in disorder, I didn't want the driver to be able to say he drove the perpetrator there.

At that time of night, that part of Lyons was almost entirely deserted. I observed a gendarme down the avenue, and ducked into a doorway, where I changed masks. After he had made his turn and disappeared around a corner, I crossed the street and picked the lock on the registry door.

It was not an elegant workplace. Spare wood paneling, hard benches, a balustrade that divided the room in half, battered desks and, most inconveniently gas lighting. I could not light the room without lighting up half the building.

That was annoying. I needed more light than that to read by. A quick rummage through the cupboards turned up some sticks of sealing wax, of the sort. that had a wick like a candle. The light they produced was uncertain, and they were inclined to drip and go out without warning, but it sufficed. I rejected the first two registry books I found as being too recent—I was looking for the records of four years ago and more—nine months before my boy was born, at the very latest. Anne and Christine would have wanted him to be legitimate.

My search was complicated by the fact that I was not looking for an entry. I was attempting to prove a negative, after all, and to do it without calling the attention of the authorities to Anne Norbert's false certificate of marriage. I wanted my son to be legitimate as well, and exposing what Anne had been a party to could only heap misery and humiliation on her.

And so I almost missed the entry, appended as it was, at the very bottom of a page, in a space not really meant for another entry.

_Anne Norbert, cook, to Erik Touchet, architect_. The date was July 30th of five years before—eleven months before my estimation of his birth.

I looked at it with a growing sense of unreality. The printed entry was perfectly clear, as was Anne's looping, semi-educated script. The signature of 'Erik Touchet' was a mere scribble. I could make out what seemed to be an 'E', a 'k', and a 'T', but they could just as easily have been a 'C', a 'b', and an 'F'.

My handwriting has never been good. Why, I do not know. I can produce complicated architectural renderings, draw infinite numbers of musical notes, draw a perfect circle without any instrument other than my hand, my eye and a pencil—but my handwriting is a childish sprawl. I_ could _have made that scribble, had I wanted to produce something that looked like a signature.

I hadn't, though—had I?

I even doubted myself for a moment…

No. It was not possible. I had been in Paris at the time. Nadir could attest to that.

That meant Anne had perpetrated, or been a part of, a much larger fraud than I had suspected. I don't doubt that there are fairly many false marriage certificates about, and that many 'widows' with children are no such thing. But to have gone so far as to get it on record—there were only two ways that could have been accomplished.

First—someone, whether it was Anne or Raoul or Christine, could have found a man who was willing to pretend to be 'Erik Touchet', provided him with forged or genuine, but wrongfully obtained, identity papers, and had him stand up with Anne in front of the registrar, and marry her in my name.

Second, someone could have suborned the registrar and the witnesses, and induced them to knowingly make a false entry in that book.

Either one would have been expensive. The second one carried more risk—the jail terms would be much more severe.

Upon another moment's reflection, I calmly reasoned out that the first scenario could not possibly have been the case, as the registration would have been taking place at least eleven months later. Somebody had to have been bribed. I turned back to the registry book. How obvious a fraud was it?

I soon found out that it was an excellent one. If that had been the only entry crammed down into the footer margin, it would have stood out. It was not. They always began a new month on a new page, so when the last marriage of the month would otherwise have taken up one line at the very top of the next page, it was often appended at the very bottom of the last page of the last month.

Next, the handwriting for that entry. The registrars—there were two, going by the differences in their writing—always printed the name of the couple and the witnesses themselves, most likely for greater legibility. One of the registrars was an older man—his spidery, light script scrabbled across the pages. The other seemed like a younger man, whose frustrated, florid script drove across with unnecessary force. He was the one who had entered Anne's un-marriage lines. I went back to the more recent books, to see if I could determine anything by comparing the relative ink colors. There was no appreciable difference among the books—all the entries were made in a non-fading, indelible, Indian ink, as coal-black as they day they were made. But the older man's handwriting appeared less and less often, I noted, as I went back and forth between the books. For the last three months, he had made no entries at all.

I was going to have to forgo breakfast at the inn. I had to stay and talk to Rene Giscard—that was the name of the registrar I needed to see. Because I had to find out how, and I had to find out who.

I started to put the registry office back into a semblance of order—but I then abandoned it. I would come back here and lie in wait for Monsieur Giscard in the morning, and extract the story from him then. In the meantime, there were the offices of Bontriomphe and Bontriomphe.

Inevitably, I found out nothing from their files. I picked the lock as neatly as I have ever done, and looked about for the information I sought—and quickly discovered that the sheer numbers of client files made my task a Sisyphean one. I found nothing under C, for Chagny, nor under Grey Goose, nor under Daaé. I tried Norbert. Nothing. Touchet—still nothing. Then I realized that there were not two Bontriomphes—there were three, Alphonse, Aristide, and Apollyon. Each of them had an office of their own, and client files of their own.

Time was not on my side; dawn was beginning to silver the sky outside. I returned the law office to very nearly the same condition in which I had found it—perhaps a few of their files were not in their proper places, but otherwise, I left it pristine. I was glad that I had thought to make less disorder this time, and returned to the registry office, where I finished picking up the pieces.

Then I secreted myself in the glorified closet that served as the private office of the registrar, with the relevant book open to the page where it stated that Anne had been married to me.

To pass the time, as the light which filtered in through the single window grew brighter, I took out my notebook and pencil and began to draw miniature portraits, first of Anne, and then once I realized that perhaps my sketches could help to prompt Monsieur Giscard's memory, of Christine and Raoul. Finally I drew the most difficult portrait of all—of Erik, of my son. That one was for me alone.

I waited for an interminable epoch. I changed my mask, and did some thinking. I was going to hold down my less rational tendencies. I would not begin by putting a noose around Giscard's neck, I resolved. If at all possible, I would not threaten him. I was conducting an investigation. If I were to go into it professionally, I would have to be professional, after all!

Then a marvelous idea came to me. I knew exactly what approach to take. I was now really looking forward to speaking with the Registrar. As the hour of nine approached, I heard footsteps, and the rattle of keys. Someone was entering the Registry Office. His feet scuffled on the floor, and the hinges squealed.

I deduced that whoever it was didn't notice anything amiss with the office, for he neither paused nor spoke as he came in, and proceeded directly to where I lay in wait for him, sitting behind his desk. He came in, and hung his hat on the rack, not noticing me.

He was a tallish, pudgy, young man. His excessive weight overbore the advantage conferred by his height and made him slightly ridiculous. His hair was dark red, and thinning on top. As he turned around, I saw that he had oily, pimpled skin. An unappealing specimen of humanity.

He saw me, and his jaw dropped in astonishment. "Who?—what are you doing here?" he asked. "How did you get in?"

"Monsieur Giscard?" I inquired.

"Yes."

"I let myself in. I needed to see you, and to do so discreetly and quietly. You see, I am investigating a legal matter—over an inheritance, you see. Quite a large one. It comes down to the question of a marriage—a marriage performed by you. This one." I laid my finger on the page.

He squinted at it, and took out a pair of round, black framed glasses. "But—Oh."

It was an eloquent 'Oh', a guilty 'Oh', an 'Oh' which spoke of a cannonball of dread forming in his stomach.

"Yes?" I asked. "What can you tell me about it?"

He rallied slightly. "What did you want to know? There is the record, there is the date. Can it be any simpler?"

"There are complications." I told him, being stern. "Before we begin, can you identify her from one of these two illustrations?" I held out the sketches I had made from memory of Anne and Christine.

"Her." he said, ungrammatically, indicating Anne.

"Very good. Did she have any accomplices with her?"

"No. That is—she had her baby with her, but no one else. A very young, new baby, too." His eyes closed spasmodically, and he swallowed the memory of revulsion. He had seen him—he had seen my son.

"Yes, there is a child involved. Now, when the child in question was born, 'Erik Touchet' was not the name on his original birth certificate. I have been to the convent hospital. I have seen it." I lied. "Yet, two months later, a new certificate was issued, with that name. Now, if Anne Touchet who was Anne Norbert is the mother of the child in question, why did she not use that name at the hospital? And if Anne Touchet is not the mother of the child in question, then a fraud concerning several thousand francs is being committed. And if Anne Norbert is not Anne Touchet—then _you_, my friend, are in a great deal of trouble. Talk."

"I can't—she said no-one would—Are you wearing a mask?" he asked.

"What if I am? I do not want my identity known. If you tell me all—it may be that I can see to it you are not prosecuted for fraud along with the others…"

"Prosecuted!" he yelped. It occurred to me that I seemed to have a talent for this. "Oh, Monsieur! I—I don't know where to begin—I haven't had my coffee yet, I'm stupid till I have some coffee, can't I—no, I'll do without… She said nobody would ever question it, M'sieu. She came in one evening, as I was closing up the office for the night, and she said—she said she had to have a marriage certificate, for the sake of the child. She said that the father had promised to marry her, would have married her, but he was gone."

"Gone how? Dead? Gone to America? Gone insane?"

"I don't know! She just said gone! She was such a beautiful girl—she looked so upset. I wanted to help her."

"Had you done things like that before?"

"No! Not—what I did for her. She said she wanted an unshakeable proof. She said she needed it for the child. If I'd known…" He was sweating.

"And then? Did she offer money?"

"Yes…and I should have known, because she… I didn't do it for money, M'sieu!" It came spilling out of him. "I didn't take a sou. Can they prosecute me if I didn't know why, and if I didn't profit by it?"

"What do you mean by that? What did you do for, if not money? Out of the kindness of your heart?" I had drawn very close to him, and that was not a pleasant experience. He smelled rank, as if he had not washed in several days. I observed a line of dirt on his neck which told me that was almost certainly the case.

"She offered money—but…"

"'But' what?"

"She was so beautiful, M'sieu! I'd never been so close to a girl so beautiful—and she was nice. A lot of the girls around here, the ones I know, anyway, they're not friendly, not the respectable ones, anyway—and I'm, I'm afraid of the other sort."

I was starting to see where this was headed, and I did not like it. "What did you get out of it?" I asked again.

"I—told her if she'd meet me at a hotel, I'd do it."

"You what?" I snapped back. A cloud of fury was beginning to coalesce behind my eyes, I could feel it. "And did she?" I was as angry as if Anne were my wife in truth, as if she had broken every marriage vow. It wasn't sane—it was something red-fanged and dripping…

"Yes…" he choked out—literally choked out, for I had him by the throat. I forced myself to loosen my grip, took several deep breaths, and asked, "What happened then?"

"You have to understand, M'sieu, Even ordinary girls don't give me the time of day, and she was beautiful—She let me touch her. She wouldn't let me do everything—she said it was too soon after having the baby, she said that it would hurt her inside, and I didn't want to hurt her…I still think about her, sometimes."

I was sure he did. That foul, greasy, smelly, rusty-headed _pig_. "And were you satisfied? Were you happy, afterwards? Did you stay all night with her? Did she use her mouth on you?" I hit him with one question after another, like bullets.

"I—she was nice to me, m'sieu. As for—using her mouth. She didn't." He flushed bright red. "I didn't—didn't have the courage to ask her to do that. I mean, just because she had a baby didn't mean she was a bad girl. I would've—I told her, in the morning, she didn't have to have a false certificate, that I'd marry her, I'd say I was her child's father, if she'd be my wife, and I would have, too—but she said it wasn't possible—Then she showed me the baby. I think she'd given him paregoric or a little laudanum, to make him sleep through the night."

"She showed you the baby." I was feeling calmer now. I mean, what had gone on didn't actually sound as though it amounted to much—not that that made it right.

"Yes—Oh, God, that child! That face."

"That face, yes. M'sieu Giscard, I have been lying to you." I said, perfectly calmly once more.

"You have?"

"I am not investigating this matter because of an inheritance."

He began to struggle in my grip. "Why—you—you! I'll have the gendarmes in here, I'll—."

"_I _am Erik Touchet." He stilled.

"Oh—oh, no. Then the mask…"

"From what you say, my child, my son, takes after me. Now you will listen to me, and listen well. What she told you was true. I would have married her. I promised to marry her. That I did not was a matter of bad timing. She did what she could to correct that. While I cannot take back the _payment_ she made you for your assistance, you can redeem yourself somewhat by swearing, should it ever be questioned by anyone, ever again, that the marriage of Anne Norbert and Erik Touchet is as true a fact as was ever written. I _will not_ have my son called a bastard. I will not have _my wife_ shamed or humiliated. How did you manage the witnesses' signatures?"

My sudden question caught him off guard. "I—traced them from other things they'd signed. They often act as witnesses, they won't remember her or not remember her."

"Good. And you will _stop_ thinking about her, do you understand?"

"Yes, M'sieu. I'm sorry."

"Yes, you are. Look, if you want girls to give you the time of day," I had let him go and was smoothing his lapels back into place. "I can tell you this. You need to bathe more often. However often you do it, it isn't enough. Take a bath at night and wash yourself in the morning. With soap. And any garment that comes into close contact with your skin—change it every day."

"I—thank you, M'sieu Touchet. You think that will help?"

"Yes."

After I impressed on him the necessity of remembering what I had told him regarding Anne, I took my leave. I had to see some lawyers.

* * *

A/N: **Allegratree**—thanks. I was striving for tasteful. This one has some vulgarity, I know, but I tried not to make it too detailed.

**Josette**—I appreciate your point. As for being OOC—I wanted to make the episode as sad and sordid as I could. I was striving for realism, in contrast to the overly florid romantic fantasies. I tried to give Erik a somber dignity in the face of it. (And I'm glad the meatballs were a hit!)

**ButterflyGuitar:** How's this for soon? Same day!

**Pickledishkiller**: Thanks! ;-)

**Ocean Queen Kai:** Consider it continued!

**MetalMyersJason:** Oh, great, more threats! Can it be by Punjab lasso? I'm a traditionalist.

Thanks, **Sarah Crawford **MaybeI'll be inspired to do an E/C some day. I'll keep this one going, though.

**Sue Raven**: Exactly the effect I was aiming for. Thanks. I'm glad I succeeded.

**HDKingsbury:** Hmm. A Phantom/Phantom crossover… Yes, the kind of critic who says, "Well, although I liked it, it didn't fit in with my preconceived notions, so it isn't any good." is _everywhere._

**Erik For President:** Thanks!

**Bella:** Thank you for pointing out those allegories! I worked hard on them, and I love it when people notice.


	23. Where is M'sieu Makepeace?

**Anne:**

I'd be glad to let Minna help with picking strawberries, but being none too bright, she eats all she picks. While I'd never stint anyone on what they eat, she don't know when to stop when she's eating fruit, and she'll gorge herself till she gets a stomachache—or the runs. So when we got in after picking the day's crop, I gave her a few and put the rest down in the refrigeration machine downstairs.

When I got back up, I said, "Erik, love, it's into the bath with you."

He goggled at me. "But Mam, it's not nighttime! It's not even lunchtime yet. Why do I got to take a bath now?"

"Because we're going off to see Father Anselm and M'sieu Roget after lunch. We're going to see about getting you some lessons, so's you can learn how to read music and play like what M'sieu Roget and M'sieu Makepeace do. I want you putting on your Sunday-best clothes after you're clean, too."

"But—but I don't need to take a bath and do that, cause M'sieu Makepeace is going to give me lessons here." he blurted.

"What? How do you know that? Nobody said nothing about that to me." I asked.

"I-uh-I don't know." He started turning red, and wouldn't meet my eyes.

"That isn't no answer. You only just played for him the once, last night. How do you know he's going want to teach you?" I can smell guilt. I'm a liar myself, much as I wish I weren't, and between that and being one of seventeen, I know something about both children and lies. "Tell me."

"I—heard him telling his friend?" he tried.

"And when would you have heard that, seeing as you've been at my elbow all morning?" I stuck my hands on my hips and gave him a searching look.

He shrank. "Maybe I dreamed it in my dreams last night?"

"Maybe, but I've doubts about that. How is it you know he's going to want to teach you? Out with it. You're looking at a week without bedtime stories if'n you don't."

"I—went and talked to him." he whispered it. "Outside of his window. Cause—cause he likes for folk to go and talk to him. I know I'm not supposed to, cause we could lose our place here, but—but… I didn't ask him if he would give me lessons. It was he what asked me if I wanted to learn to play like he does."

"You went and talked to a guest."

"Yes, Mam. Please don't be mad, Mam!"

"And he went and asked you if you wanted lessons, without asking me for my say-so. Was playing for him last night his idea?"

"Yes, Mam. Am I in trouble now?"

"Yes, you are." He started to cry. "Oh, Erik! Sophie, can you go in the bathroom and watch him while he takes his bath? I'm going to go talk to M'sieu Makepeace. You and I are still going to go to see Father Anselm and M'sieu Roget, cause I made an appointment, and they done me the favor of saying they'd see us. I'm not going to break that and give them offence. But there won't be no stopping at the book shop after."

"C'mon, lad." said Sophie, hauling herself out of her chair. "You're going to take your bath now. Can you have a look at that toe I cut, later, Anne? It's feeling a bit funny."

"Of course I will." I took off my apron, washed my hands, and checked my hair. I couldn't go off looking like a slattern. I wasn't pleased with M'sieu Makepeace, not one bit. He was making remarks about me to my niece the other day, his friend was around yesterday, asking funny questions again, and now this. A grown man should know better nor to go talking to a child so young and making plans and promises without clearing it by his mother first. And there are some men out there as can't be trusted around children…

I set off across the garden, went up to the cottage, and knocked on the door. M'sieu Khan's servant opened it. "Good day. How can I help you, Madame Touchet?" he asked.

"Good day to you. I'd like to talk a space to M'sieu Makepeace. It's important."

"M'sieu Makepeace—can't see anyone right now." said the man.

"Monsieur Makepeace _will_ see me, or the lot of you can start packing your bags." I wasn't in a humor for that.

"M'sieu Make—One moment, Madame. I will fetch M'sieu Khan."

I waited outside. M'sieu Khan came to the door. "Madame Touchet! Good morning. Is there something wrong?"

"Yes. But it's M'sieu Makepeace I come to see." I crossed my arms, and gave him a look.

"M'sieu Makepeace is not available. Is there anything I can—?"

"If M'sieu Makepeace is in the bath or in the water closet, you can say so. I can wait." I brushed past him and entered the cottage.

"Madame! I thought no female employee of the inn was permitted to enter the cottage alone!"

"Them rules don't apply to me." I sat down on the bench in the little foyer. "Tell him I'm here to see him."

"I—see that I must be frank with you, Madame Touchet. He is not here." said the Mohammedan man.

"Not here? The man was almost too weak to sit up in a chair yesterday, and now he's not here? Pull the other one, it's got bells on it." I gave him a glare. "I'm going to see him."

"Pull the other _what_? No, Madame. I am as astounded as you are, that he should be up and around, but he is not here."

"Then I'll have to see for myself." I sprang up, and was halfway down the hall before he caught on.

"No—Madame! It would be unwise…"

I knocked first, in case he wasn't dressed, then opened the door and went in. His cat, the one my lad calls 'Her majesty', streaked out past me with a yowl.

The room was empty.

On the table by the bed, there was a mask.

And then it all made sense. The way M'sieu Khan had stared at my son the first day they were here, and said 'Your son's name is Erik.'—why nobody'd seen so much as a hair on M'sieu Makepeace's head—the music—talking to my boy on the sly—he was from Boscherville—what M'sieu Khan had said to me the day before. Realizing it near struck me down.

"Madame Touchet—are you well?" asked M'sieu Khan. "Do you need water? Please, sit down. Darius, a glass of water."

He led me to the chair by the window. I looked up at his dark, kind face. "It's him, isn't it? The father. The other Erik Touchet. What am I going to do?—What am I going to do?" My head felt strange, and everything seemed very far away. I couldn't get all of us away from here, and him, not fast, not easily.

"Madame! You mustn't get so upset. Yes, it's true. It was only by chance that we came here, last week, and he was so—unwell, that it was not until Monday that I pointed the boy out to him. He's not angry! He_ is_ bewildered, but he's not angry. Thank you, Darius." He pressed a glass of water into my hand. "Drink some."

"He's not angry—he don't want to kill anyone?" I asked.

"No, he's not angry at all. I think he loved his son from the moment he laid eyes on him. He is a little hurt, however. Tell me, are you the boy's real mother—or is she the Countess De Chagny, who was Christine Daaé?"

There was more secrets than my own at stake here. "Whoever it was what gave birth to him," I answered, "I'm the one what changed his diapers. I'm the one as walked the floor with him when he had colic. Whether it was me or Christine Daaé or the Empress of all the Russias who gave him life, _I'm_ his mother. _I'm_ his _real _mother. _I'm_ the one as is raising him. _I'm_ the one that loves him."

"I understand you. No one who ever saw the two of you together could ever doubt that you love him. In the truest sense of the word, you are his mother. But you will not tell me who carried him."

"No. I gave my word, and I'm not breaking it. What—what do you think _he's_ going to do? Where is _he_?"

"He has gone to Lyons, seeking answers about you and the boy." said M'sieu Khan.

Lyons! If he found out what all I'd done—And here I thought I'd been clever. I'd been too damn clever. I'd counted on his never finding us.

"I trust you know what it is he may learn there."

"Yes. He might find out—I've gone and given him power over us. You said he loves my lad—if he was minded to take this into court—There can't be no doubt he's my boy's father, and judges almost always side with the father, unless he's known to be too wicked to have children in his care. Would he want to take my boy away?"

"You need not fear that! I'm sure he wouldn't want to separate the two of you. He saw how you love the boy. He knows what good care you take of him. He was your mysterious watcher outside the window a few nights ago."

"That was him?"

"Yes, and there is more. He already has a great tenderness toward you, you see. I am afraid I was too bold in what I said to you last night, but I did not anticipate this…"

"What—that you'd have me love him?" I asked. "That's—I've never met him! I don't know—I've got to get back to my kitchen. There's work to be done. I—do you know when he'll be back?"

"He says he will be back in time to hear the boy play again tonight. Don't think that you have to flee here—he won't force himself into your family. He's too shy—too afraid of hurting you, of scaring you. Whatever else may come in time…"

"I can't talk about that right now. I can't even think about it..." I put my hands over my ears, like a child, and fled from the cottage.

* * *

**A/N:** Well! As you can see, the plot is beginning to build up some speed! I will update soon.

**Tiktok**: Thank you! Although I do have an original book-length manuscript, I haven't been published yet. I'm using fanfiction as a way of learn how to tell a story really well before I do another draft of my novel.

**Bella:** I'm kicking this story up a notch, and I should be doing an 'Anne and Christine' flashback fairly soon—as in, in the next five chapters. There will be more small revelations salted around as I go. Thank you!

**Lucia:** Welcome back, my favorite librarian reviewer! I hope you enjoyed the Reading Conference. A chapter from little Erik's point of view—what a great idea! I'll see if I can work that in. It might have to be as a flashback, as if a grown-up Erik Jr. was reminiscing about the summer his father came home. The implications about the fraud will become clearer in future chapters. Anne has gotten herself into a very awkward situation, and knows it. As the demands the registrar made of Anne—Yes, it was sad, and it affected Anne a great deal. She still feels bad about it, but as she is a very practical person, and someone who is good-natured and happy most of the time, she has not let it traumatize her. Thanks so much!

**MetalMyersJason**: Well, since it is the central mystery of this fic, I intend to keep my readers guessing as to who actually gave birth to little Erik for some time to come. I'm sorry, but you'll have to stay in suspense along with everybody else. Anne, as she says in this chapter, _is_ his real mother—that is the truth. Where his DNA came from—that's only a matter of biology.

**Allegratree:** As so often, we seem to be on the same page. As I was writing that chapter and got to that scene, I paused before I wrote about Erik slipping a Punjab lasso over Giscard's head, and asked myself if the noose business wasn't already done to death—so to speak. I hope this chapter finds you having a better day.

**HDKingsbury: **Perhaps Erik Sr. is moving a bit fast on the 'my wife' business, but Anne was at least partly responsible—you'll learn more in the next chapter…

**Ellen:** You sound like you had quite a time in Russia. I'm impressed. And your mistake was a perfectly natural one, I think. Welcome back.

And shout-outs to **Josette, flamingices, and Erik for President!**


	24. Aristide Bontriomphe Talks Money

I've changed the summary for this story, check it out!

**Erik:**

I took my seat on the train back to Evrondes, my mind reeling. My visit to Bontriomphe and Bontriomphe had been…informative, but not informative enough for my taste.

I really was having the worst difficulty absorbing it all.

While that revelation about the register and how the record of 'our' marriage had got there had shocked me, I did not hold it against her. She had done it for the boy's sake. Curiously enough, the knowledge that she had committed fraud and told several notable lies gave me a sort of fellow feeling about her. It made her flesh and blood.

The way in which Anne had secured the proofs of her marriage convinced me that she had not sought legal advice beforehand, nor told any lawyers afterward. She would not have told anyone about that sordid episode in her life. Therefore, I was going to go into the law offices purporting to be none other than Erik Touchet, Anne's long absent husband, newly returned and ignorant of her whereabouts. I would be anxious for news of her, and full of a sincere longing to be reunited. I paused on the threshold, took a breath, and went in

My triumph in the Registry Office made me confident—perhaps overconfident. I came up against a head clerk who would not be moved. I had told him who I was, and for whom I was searching. He had admitted that Madame Anne Touchet was indeed a client of their firm, but that their policy of client confidentiality made it impossible for him to tell me more unless I had proof, not only that I was Erik Touchet, but that I was the same Erik Touchet who was married to her. He was also eyeing my mask askance.

A voice broke in to our argument. "It's all right, Paul, I'll handle this." I turned to see a tall, lanky man leaning casually against the door frame leading in to one of the Bontriomphes' private offices. He was about my age, I judged. He had dark hair, a wide mouth like an amiable frog's, and large ears that stuck out at right angles to his head. "Would you care to step into my office, Monsieur?" He pointed at the room behind him.

"Do I have the honor of addressing one of the Messieurs Bontriomphe?" I inquired, as he shut the door behind us.

"Indeed you do. I'm Aristide Bontriomphe. Apollyon is my brother, Alphonse our father." He lowered his long frame into his desk chair, but did not offer me a seat. "If I understand correctly, you say you are M'sieu Erik Touchet, the husband of Madame Anne Touchet, our valued client, but you have no official identification on you. I am prepared to take you at your word, and disclose everything we know about her and her affairs—that is, if you will remove your mask, and permit me to see your face."

I froze, and could say nothing. It was genuine; the request was so reasonable phrased, and so unwelcome.

"Madame Touchet has a three year old son by her husband, you see, and he is rather a unique looking child. She tells me he takes after his father. If you are who you say you are, I will know immediately." he said, affably, spreading his hands.

"I would prefer not to do so." I said.

"Then I am afraid I cannot help you."

"I do this only with great reluctance. I have not been in contact with my wife in over four years, during which time she, and the son I did not suspect existed, have apparently dropped off the face of the earth."

"I understand. It need only be for a moment, and I have every sympathy for you."

I reached up, and pulled the mask up.

He drew in his breath sharply, and raised his eyebrows, causing a series of parallel lines to climb his forehead and vanish into his hair. "Thank you, Monsieur Touchet. I am quite satisfied."

I replaced my mask as he rang a bell for a clerk, and requested the Touchet files, explaining to me as he did so, that the more important clients' files were kept in the senior Bontriomphe's office.

"But what of Anne?" I asked, anxiously, wondering what he meant by 'more important'.

Several minutes later, after he had told me she was alive and well, and so forth, I asked the first of the questions I had really come to ask. "But who owns the Grey Goose?"

"By French law as it now exists—_you_ do, M'sieu Touchet." was his reply. "As a married woman, she was obligated to purchase it in your name—but then she did it with the money you left with her."

"What?" I experienced that feeling of unreality again, as I had in the registry office, when I found her name linked with mine.

"Perhaps I should begin at the beginning, which is now—almost four years ago. Let's call it four years, that's simpler. Four years ago, when Madame Touchet first came to call on me, with a hundred and fifty thousand francs in cashier's checks, I thought, at the time, that she had made an extremely fortunate marriage. In the intervening years, I have reversed that opinion. I now believe it was you who made the fortunate marriage.

"I remember it very well," he said, continuing. "She looked very fresh and cool despite the heat—it was August and it was stifling, but she had on a white cotton dress and a hat with scarlet poppies on it, and looked as fresh as a daisy. She had made an appointment with us through her former employer, the Comte de la Fere. We have the honor of being his solicitors. She told me that you had gone abroad and left a lot of money with her to be invested, so she would have something to live on until you returned, but she had had a baby in the meantime, and had done nothing with the funds until she was sure she would live. She had come to us for assistance.

"I told her that while we would be happy to help her in any way we could, we weren't an investment firm. I was about to recommend one, when she said 'No, I know just what I want to do with this money, and I needs lawyers for that.' She then outlined her plan to me. She wanted to buy an inn—not just any inn, but that particular one. She wanted to have it modernized and renovated, and then she wanted to take over the kitchen there, and become the cook.

"I pointed out that she was very young—you robbed the cradle, sir, when you married her, but I think in her case you had to; she wouldn't have stayed on the market for long—and lacked the practical experience needed to run a business.

"She surprised me by agreeing; she said she only wanted to run the kitchen, which she _did_ understand. Most of the work—the accounting and such—would be done by proxy, through us, and she wanted us to hire someone to run the inn itself. She pulled out a list two pages long, listing all the improvements she wanted done, complete with simple estimates, even to the point of little bits of yarn to show what colors she wanted on the walls.

"I asked her how she'd found the time and the patience to draw up that list, and she said that her baby had come down with colic—I'm not married, but I know that means they cry non-stop for weeks on end—so since she wasn't sleeping anyway, she thought she might as well do something useful. 'Useful' is one of your wife's favorite words.

"Yes, I know. Like William Morris' axiom 'Have nothing in your home which you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.'" I replied. It was not altogether a lie; I went by what I had observed of her.

He nodded. "That sounds like her. I didn't get to meet your son on that occasion. He was being looked after by Madame Childes, your wife's former superior in the Comte's kitchen, and your wife's one sister, the one who'd only just had a baby out of wedlock—."

"Might you mean Martine?" I hazarded a guess, remembering what Madame Hussenot had said of Anne's sister.

"Yes, that's the one."

"I never liked Martine." I commented, for all the world as if I knew every last one of the Norberts. Well, it was true. From what I had heard of Martine, I didn't like her.

"I don't blame you. A very unhappy young woman, Mademoiselle Martine—one of those who goes around angry because she thinks life owes her something and isn't paying up. Anyway, Madame Touchet turned over the cashier's checks and the letter you wrote her—By the way, we sort of had to turn that power-of-attorney into a legal document after the fact. It should have been notarized at the time, but since we have a notary in our office, it was easy—just a little bit shady…and put the wheels into motion toward the purchase of the Grey Goose.

"I did everything that I could to dissuade her from making what I thought was going to be a disastrous mistake—especially after I found out what sort of condition it was in, and that the town itself was so small and poor. But she insisted—she said that the railway made it a better prospect than it seemed, and all that was needed was good food to turn it into a going concern. The only thing I did do was get her to invest the money itself in government securities, and then take out a bank loan against them to buy the inn and do the renovations, rather than paying cash for everything. And I told her it would be folly to borrow and spend more than a hundred thousand. I thought that way I could prevent her from absolute destitution when the inn failed, as she would still have the income off of fifty thousand, which would keep her and the boy in relative comfort, at least until he started school.

"So we went ahead and purchased the inn. The Boulangers, who owned it, wanted forty thousand, but you got it for thirty. I thought that twenty would have been a fairer price, but Madame Touchet said that the inn was their only asset, and that she was buying the goodwill as well as the property. That was also why she didn't want it known that she was the owner—or the owner's wife. She didn't want to incur the envy and resentment of the community."

"I can believe it of her, but Anne never used the word 'incur.'" I said.

"You're right, she didn't. What she actually said was that she didn't 'want to put all their noses out of joint straight off.' Once all the modernizations were complete, all the redecorating done, the repairs made and the new gardens dug, one hundred and seven thousand and some odd francs had been spent on the place. It's all here in the files. The biggest single expense after the purchase of the inn itself was that damn refrigeration machine, excuse my language. It was a difficult transaction, since a technician had to come along with it and overstayed his visa. But she says it more than pays for itself, especially in hot weather.

"Now, most small new businesses fail within five years. Over ninety percent of them fail. I was only hoping to save something from the wreckage for your family to live on. But your wife was wiser than that. The inn did not quite break even in the first year. In the second, it turned a healthy profit. The loan of a hundred thousand francs was paid back in the third—in full. Monsieur Touchet, what with the improvements, the rise in property values, and the potential for future earnings, you and Madame Touchet own, free and clear, without encumbrances, a property and business worth approximately a third of a million. In addition to which, the original one hundred and fifty thousand francs, now invested in securities, has grown to two hundred and seventeen thousand, between the accrued interest and the investment of the inn's profits. There is also seventy thousand francs in liquid funds in the bank. In her last letter, Madame Touchet talked of purchasing a small property down by the railroad station and turning it into a combination bakery-café. If I were you, sir, I would only encourage her to as she sees fit."

No wonder the Touchet files were kept among those of their more important clients.

"But—I know she was a good cook, and could only have gotten better with time—how could she have amassed so much in such a short time?" It was an honest question. I really wanted to know the answer.

"Ah. There lies something I wanted to talk to you about. I believe it's on account of the truffles."

I confusedly thought for a moment that he meant the dog Truffle and her expected puppies. "Truffles? I don't know what you mean."

"What do you know about truffles?"

"Not much." I confessed

"Let's begin there. They are a type of fungus that grows underground. Truffles are a prized gastronomic delight. They cannot be cultivated commercially. They cannot be cultivated at all, in fact. They're very rare, highly desired by men who believe in certain aphrodisiacal powers they are reputed to have, loved for their earthy flavor, and used in a wide variety of savory dishes. They only grow in a few isolated areas of France, none of which are anywhere near Evrondes, and they are extremely expensive. I would go so far as to say that they are phenomenally expensive. And Madame Touchet uses them lavishly."

"You mean to say she's spending too much on them? But then the inn would be losing money, not making it."

"You're right. It would be—if she were spending too much on them. She isn't. As far as I can tell from the accounts she sends in every month, she doesn't spend a sou on truffles. She charges a third less than Paris restaurants would for the dishes she makes using truffles, and she even resells some truffles—at going market rates. Since she isn't buying them, it begs the question of where, exactly, is she getting them?"

"What does she say?" I asked, puzzled.

"She doesn't. I have come to the conclusion that she must be involved with the black market. Could you persuade her to give it up? Some of the people involved in that trade are prone to violence, and not only are there laws against it, but even if she should evade criminal charges, she is liable to get into a great deal of trouble over the taxes."

"I—will do my best."

"Thank you. Now, is there anything else I can do for you, sir? If you happen to be in immediate need of funds, I can—." He raised his eyebrows at me.

"Thank you, but no. However—if you would undertake a commission for me?" I had had an inspiration.

"Anything that is in my power."

I opened the trick compartment in the heel of my boot, and removed Ayesha's collar. "I am not coming home a pauper, but the greatest part of my funds is tied up in this little bauble."

"I see." He took the diamonds from me, turned it over in his hand, admiring their flash.

"You see there the fruits of four years of labor. You will have wondered why I should have absented myself so soon after my marriage."

"I confess I have. Even if Madame Touchet had the temperament of a harpy, her cooking would more than make up for that. I couldn't imagine why any reasonable man would leave her."

"I had made a prior commitment, which I had to keep. I was not, as she may have said, working for the Vanderbilts as an architect—that would hardly prevent my keeping in touch with my wife—I was elsewhere, doing something else, which I am not free to talk about. If you are wondering why I would bring home my pay in the form of diamonds, rather than cashier's checks—it is because I might not have been able to bring anything home at all, otherwise." I invented.

"I see." he said, again. "If it were anyone else, I don't think I would believe it…What can I do for you concerning this?"

"You can find me a buyer." I said. "I would like a receipt, of course."

"Certainly…And while I am not, as I said, a married man, may I offer a word of advice?"

"I suppose." I said, tentatively.

"Keep one of these sparklers, and have it set into a ring or a pendant for Madame Touchet. It will go a long way toward reconciling her toward your absence."

"Well taken, sir."

There had been more—he had called in a jeweler of his acquaintance to make an estimate of its worth, and other such details, but now I was on the train again, headed—headed toward home, or the closest thing I had to it on earth, having learned so much, and yet so little. I still didn't know where the money had come from, although I knew what she had done with it.

And then there was the fact that I was apparently the owner of record…which was extremely interesting.

* * *

**A/N:** I am not sure if the legal points made in this chapter are completely accurate, but in most places, for most of the 19thy century, a married woman had very few propery rights. On the whole, under such circumstances,a woman's husband would be the owner of allshe possessed.

Wow! The responses to the last chapter have been wonderful. Let me assure all those who miss them that the recipes are coming back. They just haven't fit into the last several chapters.

**Lucia:** I tried to send you an e-mail on 7/21—did you get it? If not, let me know…

**Bella**: Thank you—I thought the set-up, as it was, would be in character for both little Erik and Anne. Did you get my e-mail?

**Nota Lone:** Please don't do that. It sounds…painful.

**Butterfly Guitar:** I can be sneaky that way. Thank you.

**Alittlerayofsunshine:** I'm doing my best…

**Kramedart Trademark:** Thank you, my palindromic friend.

**Awoman:** I hope you enjoy your trip. I miss you!

**Stine:** Glad you liked the salad and scones!

**HDKingsbury:** I, myself, get worked up when I write lines like Anne's in chapter 23. I can't help it. Did you get my last e-mail?

**MetalMyersJason:** He definitely wants to stay with his son, and he will get to do just that. Keep reading; you'll see.

**An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin:** passes Muffin a band-aid There you go, hon.

**Thank you also to: Sat-Isis, C. Dragonstongue, ante mortem, Phantom Raver, Sarah Crawford, and Sarahbelle.**


	25. What's Past is Prologue:Anne & Christine

**Anne:**

After that shock, I wasn't in no humor to go off and see Father Anselm and M'sieu Roget, but we went anyway, in our little cart, me at the reins and Erik sitting quiet as a little mouse in his best clothes with his fiddle case across his knees. I was quiet too.

I couldn't help but remember the talk that led to his being born…

"I don't see how you can work with food all day and not get fat. You're always eating." I was making lemon-cardamom cookies. Mademoiselle Daaé snuck a finger into the bowl of dough and came out with a fingerful. "I'd blow up like a balloon."

She sounded jealous. M'mselle Daaé was a pretty girl, but that day she had dark rings under her eyes, and looked like she hadn't been sleeping good.

I was working for her foster-mother, Madame Valerius, as more than just a cook. The old lady was poorly, so I was as much a nurse as I was a cook. I was working to save up enough to go back to Lyons, and getting together the francs wasn't easy nor quick.

"But I don't go eating all the time. I just has a taste here and a drop there, to be sure I'm getting it right. I'm always on the move, too. I spend all day on my feet, lugging great heavy pots about, and suchlike. So while I'm not skinny like what you is, I don't get fat, neither."

"You think I'm skinny? Truly?" she asked.

"Yes? Don't you? We're of a height. Look at your hand next to mine."

She'd got a lady's hands, smooth and white, with veins as blue as the sky wandering over her little bird-bones. My hands was rough and red, from all the work I done, and you couldn't find my veins through my skin.

"Oh, I see. Compared to you, I'm the thinner one. Do you like being a cook?" she asked.

I don't like nosy folk, generally speaking, but she had winning ways about her. "Best job in the world," I told her.

"How did you know you wanted to be a cook?"

"It was Madame Julie, the cook at the Comte de la Fere's. I was new there, and powerful low in spirits, being away from home for the first time—and other reasons besides—and she give me a plate of raspberry tarts one day, and let me sit in the kitchen and eat. It was a Friday, if I recollect right, and she was poaching a whole salmon. She's a body what likes to talk, and all the while she worked, she told me what she was doing, and why, how to tell if the fish was fresh or no, all the ingredients that went into the court bouillon she was poaching it in, and I started helping. It wasn't like housework or lace-making where you have to do the same thing everyday, the same way you done it before, with folk looking to find fault with what you done. Madame Julie got to make different foods everyday, and she got to try new things and come up with new recipes, and folk praised her to the sky. I knew then I was meant to be a cook, and make delicious food. Knowing what you're born to do is a gift as isn't given to many in this world. What about you and singing?"

Her face went as blank as a glass of milk, and then she wrinkled her brow and frowned. "I fell into it, more than anything else. My father was a musician, so when he died, and I turned out to have a good voice, they sent me to the conservatory. Singing was chosen for me. I was really a mediocre student, in all truth. The only times my voice has ever taken flight—was when my Angel lent me his wings." She was quiet a space, and then her face crumpled up.

"But my angel turned out to be only a man…" She put her head down and began to cry, right there among the bowls of cookie dough and raisins and flour.

"Hold on now, what's the matter?" I gave her a towel for her face.

"I can't do it." she wailed. "I want to give him what he wants—but there wouldn't be anything left of _me_, afterward. I'd be lost, I'd be drowned. There's so much of his personality, and he burns so, I'd go up like a bit of straw. I could never find myself again, afterward."

It took some little while before I could get the sense of what she was going on about.

"So there's this 'Erik' what taught you and helped you, and you took his help without ever asking what he would want back, cause he said he was an angel." My voice must have told her what I thought of that story.

"I know I was as naïve as a little girl, and it sounds like he's an unspeakable villain, but he never would have done it if he weren't so desperately lonely." She gulped, and wiped her face.

"…Right. And he did it for love, but now he wants some back, and you agreed cause you're fond of him, but now you want to go back on it." I wanted to be sure I had it right.

"It isn't that simple. I don't love him—not as I love Raoul." She brightened up like a wilted flower put into water when she said that name. I knew who she was talking about. I'd seen him around. Prince Charming, in the flesh. "I'm afraid that if I give myself to Erik, just once, I will never be free again."

"What, just because you'd have given him some?" I asked.

"Yes. Oh, what should I do?" she moaned.

I'd only been working there for two weeks. She must have been desperate, to be talking so to a stranger like me. Or maybe, being a stranger, she found it easier.

"If I was you, I'd keep my word. You'll feel better for it. Look here, I know you got to be a virgin, cause of how you're making more out of it than what it is. You'll still be yourself, after, and then there'll be all of your life to live with your Raoul. As for it being your first time, well—it'll be downright uncomfortable, but not so bad as all that. The second time, it won't be so uncomfortable. Once you're doing it regular, that's when it'll start getting good."

"What? You mean you've done—that?"

"Yes. That's how I got to Paris. I done something stupid." I sighed. I couldn't help it. "Up till three months ago, I was still working under Madame Julie. Then there was this man—no, I'm being too kind. This great overgrown boy, for all his years. It was spring, and—and I was a damn fool, that's all there is to it."

"Are you married, then?" she asked.

"No—and I'm right glad of that! Now I've gone and shocked you. I thought it was love—he promised to marry me, and I went along of him. We came to Paris. For a while, we lived on his money, which didn't last long. Then we lived on my savings, which lasted a lot longer. He promised as he would get a job, which he never done, and when I wrote to Madame Julie for a reference, so's I could get one, he said he didn't mind me working, but that a girl with a figure like mine could make a lot more money going with men."

She gasped. "You mean—he wanted you to—."

"Yes. And that was when I knew it wasn't love, cause if he loved me, he never would have asked me that, and if I loved him, I would have done it. That was the end of it. I said no, and he seized on a broom and gave me a crack across the shoulders with the handle. Then I broke his damn nose for him—lugging pots makes a body powerful strong—and the next day, I went down to the domestic employment agency, and they sent me here to you."

"Oh—Oh! That's terrible! Did it hurt badly, when he hit you?" She was all big eyes.

"Not near so bad as knowing I'd been such a fool. I'd left a good job where I was happy, left all my friends, run through four years of savings like it was water, and given _it_ to a long streak of widdle with the soul of a pimp. I feels like a bag of broken glass, inside, with being heart-sick and troubled in my conscience. But I never, never stopped being me. He had my body, he bruised my heart, and threw my mind into confusion, but he never touched my soul."

"But—that means you're ruined—aren't you?" she asked, all timid-like. "How will you get married now?"

"I knows it's different if you're a lady, but folk like me don't make such of fuss about that. Anybody what I would want to marry is going to want me for more important things than just my maidenhead. Anyhow, I'm not romantical. I don't want what you got, like a fire burning all out of control. I'll be happy with just a hearth-fire sort of love, in a comfortable home, with children and a reason to get up in the morning and go to bed at night. And I've got time. I've still got my figure and my teeth—even if they is crooked—and I'm just sixteen."

"Sixteen!" she yelped. "I thought you were as old as I am—or even older. You don't look sixteen. You've a—um—very womanly figure for sixteen."

"That I knows," I said. "When I was twelve, I could be mistook for sixteen. Now that I'm sixteen, I'm taken for twenty. I hope that stops."

"I'm sure it will. It's not your face, you know, it's your figure. So—would my husband be able to tell—if I did keep my word to Erik?"

It was a bit of a leap getting back to what we was talking of before. "Is he real experienced, that you knows of?"

She went pink. "No. No more than I am."

"Then, no. You might prick your finger with a needle, if you wants to leave proof."

"And you didn't get—in the family way?"

"No—dozens of times, nothing happens at all." What I didn't tell her was that I'd have another two weeks or so until I was sure I wasn't going to have a baby. Or more, cause anyone can miss once for no reason.

I did come to regret that little talk—but I couldn't say I regretted it now. After all, the end of it was sitting right next to me, giving me a glance every so often.

"You're awful quiet, love." I said to him.

"So are you, Mam."

"I'm just having a bit of a think. We're not stopping by the book shop, cause that's your punishment, but that's all the punishment you'll get. It wasn't all your fault."

"Can—can M'sieu Makepeace still give me lessons?" he asked.

"We'll see. Let's find out what happens here first." We pulled up to the church, and I gave the reins and cart over to the odd-job man.

* * *

**Lemon-Cardamom Cookies**

1/3 cup golden raisins

2 tablespoons lemon juice

2 ¼ cups all purpose flour

¼ teaspoon baking soda

Pinch of salt

2 teaspoons ground cardamom for the dough

1 ½ stick of unsalted butter, softened

1 cup light brown sugar, firmly packed

1 large egg, room temperature

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 tablespoons brown sugar, for the topping

1 teaspoon ground cardamom, for the topping

Soak the raisins in the lemon juice in a cup or small bowl for at least half an hour before using. Sift the flour, baking soda, and salt together. Set aside.

Using an electric mixer, beat the butter until pale and creamy. Add the sugar and 2 teaspoons of cardamom, and beat until combined. Add the egg and the vanilla. Beat until well combined. Using a large spoon, beat in the raisins and any remaining lemon juice. Add the flour gradually, while beating with a mixer on low speed.

Using your hands, roll the dough into a fairly even cylinder. You may need to flour your hands to keep it from sticking too much. Wrap the cylinder in plastic wrap, and chill in the refrigerator for at least two hours, or as long as overnight.

When you are ready to bake, preheat the oven to 375 F. Spray a cookie sheet with cooking spray.

Unwrap the cylinder. Slice the dough into ½ inch slices with a sharp knife. Place the cookies about two inches apart on the sheet.

Mix the remaining teaspoon of cardamom with the two tablespoons of brown sugar. Sprinkle the cookies with the topping.

Bake for 11 to 14 minutes until they are turning pale golden brown around the edges.

Remove from the oven, and allow to cool for five minutes before transferring them to a wire rack using a spatula.

Enjoy! Very good with tea, coffee, or milk.

* * *

**A/N:** As you can see, a recipe is here this time!

Some of you are amused at the idea of a truffle black market, but there really was, and is, such a thing! Black truffles can fetch as much as four thousand dollars a pound, (which is how Anne has been raking in the money) and sums like that will attract crime and criminals. Owners of known-truffle producing lands often find that people trespass and dig truffles in the middle of the night, which can lead to violence and bloodshed if they are caught at the scene. Other crimes involve fraud—the dyeing of white truffles so they appear to be the more highly prized and expensive black truffle, and tampering with the weight by caking truffles with dirt or inserting bits of metal or pebbles so they will fetch more money.

**Shout-outs!**

**Allegratree:** Erik has a _tremendous _surprise waiting! Anne is going to be doing a lot of thinking…

**Erik for President:** Thank you. You are supposed to be confused, but in this case Anne means what every mother who adopted a child thinks when her child says to her, "You're not my _real_ mother." A biological mother may carried and give birth to a child, but the woman who wants, raises, and loves that child, is the _real_ mother. Often they are the same person; sometimes not.

**Awoman:** I hope you get this chapter before you leave—it's Monday afternoon for me, but I'm not sure what time or day it is in Germany. I send you a virtual hug.

**Sat-Isis:** Did you think I was going to make it easy for either Erik or you? Here is a new recipe, as requested! I passed on your comment, btw. It was much appreciated.

**Bella:** Thank you! You can expect an email soon, and as you can tell, my power is back!

**HDKingsbury:** My power is back! My sanity is saved! I will write soon.

Thank you also to: **Sarahbelle, Alittlerayofsunshine, Nota Lone, and Ante Mortem!**


	26. Contradictions

**Erik:**

It was bittersweetly amusing to imagine how I might, if I wished, introduce myself at the inn—as I would if there was a real marriage between Anne and myself. I certainly wouldn't make my way back to the cottage by skirting the inn yard through the woods, as I was now doing.

No, I would instead go directly to the main house and present myself at the front desk.

"Good afternoon, sir! How may I help you?" M'sieu Hussenot would say, affably, as he came out to greet me. He might be taken aback by the mask, but I would weather that, and anyhow, this new life-like mask was working out quite well.

"Good afternoon. You are Monsieur Hussenot, are you not?" I would ask.

"Why, yes." would be his reply.

"I am very pleased to finally meet you."

"But—who are you, sir?" he would ask.

"Me? I'm your employer."

"My employer? Truly, sir?" His eyes would be round with amazement.

"Yes. If you will send one of your amiable granddaughters for Madame Touchet, I'm sure she will vouch for me. She's my wife…"

I could do that—if I wanted to amuse myself at Anne's expense. She would be shocked, and most likely, horrified as well.

As I picked my way through the underbrush, I heard a rustle, and a pale blur flashed across the path in front of me, then suddenly stopped.

"Ayesha?" I asked.

She had a live sparrow in her mouth, struggling and fluttering to be free. "Mow?" asked my little cat.

It was an error on her part. Her mouth opened enough for the bird to escape, and it flew past me. She took off after her prey, but I was in the way. She crashed right into my legs, bounced off, and gave me a look compounded equally of fury and frustration. Then she proceeded to tell me, at great length and in great detail, exactly what she thought of me for making her lose her bird.

"You shouldn't be using that sort of language. You're a lady." I told her sternly. I may not speak or understand all the nuances of Cat, but I know swearing when I hear it. "Come here, you!" I bent and picked her up. She suddenly seemed to develop three more heads, seventeen more legs, and twelve more tails, as she metamorphosed into a wriggling, clawing frenzy. "All right, all right!" I let her go.

I couldn't really blame her. Her life under the Opera House had been very safe, but very dull. This countryside had filled her with an enthusiasm and vitality I hadn't seen in her since her kitten days.

I reached the cottage, and went in by the back door, where I surprised Darius. "He's back!" he immediately called. Nadir appeared.

"Ah, Daroga! You will not believe what I learned in Lyons." I greeted him.

"Before you tell me anything, I must first tell you something of the utmost importance." he began.

"Spare me the lecture right now, if you please."

"This isn't a lecture. Madame Norbert knows. She knows you are here, and she knows who you are." Nadir said, severely.

"What? How?" I asked, stunned.

"She came by not long before lunch, and she insisted that she had to see you—or, rather, to see M'sieu Makepeace. I don't know why. She would not be put off, nor could she be prevented from entering first the cottage, then your room. At that point, she saw the mask you left on the bedside table, and all the color drained out of her face. I thought she was about to faint. Her exact words were, 'It's him, isn't it? The father. The other Erik Touchet.'"

"Oh," I said. "Oh, that is…unfortunate."

"I agree. Your reputation precedes you; she was afraid you would hurt or kill someone. She also said that she had given you power over them, although I have no idea what she meant by that."

"I do. Go on." I told him.

"She is afraid that you will want to take the boy away from her."

"Dear God, no! He would hate me forever. What did you tell her?"

"I did my best to reassure her. I told her you weren't angry, merely hurt and bewildered. I told her I was sure you wouldn't try to take the boy away, because you had seen what good care she took of him, and how she loved him. She also asked where you were, since you weren't there, and when I told her, she nearly collapsed for the second time."

"You will understand why, once I tell you what I learned there. What then?"

"I may be getting things slightly out of order, but I asked her if she were the boy's real mother. She said yes—."

"What?" I cried.

"—in the sense that she loved him and cared for him. She neither confirmed nor denied that she had borne him, saying only that she could not tell, because she had given her word. Shortly thereafter, she ran out of the cottage."

"And did what?" I asked.

"Finished her immediate work in the kitchen. Wednesday, is, if you will recall, her second afternoon off. She and the boy then went off in the dog cart to keep an appointment. That's where they are now. Now, whatever it is that you do next, I would advise you to do it very carefully and gently. In her current state, I would say she is likely to do anything—such as, take the boy and run."

"No." I shook my head. "That she will not do, Nadir. I am certain of that."

"How so?"

"Because, even if there weren't the entire kitchen house family to worry about—she _owns_ the Grey Goose, and quite a lot of the surrounding property. It's worth about a third of a million francs, and she has almost as much again in investments and in the bank. She wouldn't run away from that."

"Is this true?" asked Darius, stupefied.

"Utterly. I had it from her lawyer." I told him. "I told him I was her husband."

"And he believed you?" he asked.

"For once, my unfortunate face did me some good. He recognized the father of Anne's son on sight, once I took off the mask. Of course, when I say that she owns it, I'm not being strictly accurate. I should say, rather, that as her husband, I own it." I said to them.

"You're certainly in a playful mood," commented Nadir. "What do you mean, you own it? Whatever she may be claiming, you say she isn't legally tied to you."

"Well, as it happens, I was wrong. I have seen the marriage lines—."

"Ah-Hah!" Nadir crowed, in triumph.

"—which got into the registry book as the result of bribery. She suborned the registrar."

Nadir did not need to know in what coin Anne had paid.

"It is down in black and white for all the world to see. She can't refute it without incriminating herself and labeling the boy a bastard. That is what she meant when she said she had given me power over them."

"Erik." said Nadir, suddenly looking grim, "what will you do with that power?"

I heaved a sigh, my mood suddenly deflated. "Not a thing. Not a single thing. How could I? I didn't earn the money. De Chagny came up with a hundred and fifty thousand francs to take the boy. It was Anne who made that money quadruple—with the help of the truffle poachers and smugglers, that is. I'll demand nothing. All I will ask is the privilege of teaching him and watching him grow up—and if she refuses me that, I'll take a house somewhere around here and watch from a short distance."

"Oh, I just remembered." Darius mumbled. "Where is it? You got a letter today." He produced it.

It was from Jules. "Thank you." I said, and broke the seal on it.

It read:

_Dear Sir:_

_I am very glad indeed to learn that you are alive and well. I often think of my years as your assistant with pleasure, and regret that those days are behind me. Even Madame Bernard now sees the worth of your patient and reliable nature._

That meant they were badly short of money.

_As far as the assignments you gave me, I have made a great deal of progress. I have not learned everything you wanted to know, but I am sending on this partial report so that you might not be kept waiting._

_Mademoiselle Marie Perrault now lives in a residence for gentlewomen in Bayeux. I have not yet been able to locate Doctor Etienne Barye, but I have not stopped looking. Dead or alive, he shall be found, and found by me._

_The Count and Countess De Chagny have their primary residence in Vienna at this time. However, they are known to travel a great deal, and are, at present, residing in Geneva._

_They have had two children, one of whom ,their infant son, is dead. He was born in Vienna in April of last year, and died in June._

_Their surviving child, a girl, is called Rosalie. She is three, and was born in the town of Le-Puy-En-Velay. She will be four on August 19th._

That…did not seem right. I had been expecting to learn that their first child had been born in late June, in a convent hospital near the France-Switzerland border. I had been assuming that Anne and Christine had been brought to bed at or near the same time, in the same place, and that the babies had been exchanged then. Perhaps the August date and place were fictional, chosen to better fit the date of their wedding, to ensure the legitimacy of the child. Or…

Then I recalled Martine Norbert, who M'sieu Bontriomphe had said had had a baby out of wedlock, and had the child adopted. Of course! Anne's child must have turned out to be a boy, and De Chagny, being the aristocrat that he was, would not have wanted the title and estate to go to one not of his blood. But Anne was willing to take my son, where Martine was not, and that was more important.

It troubled me that I did not know exactly when my son's birthday was. That was something a father should know. Perhaps I could find out from Anne, because surely we would have to meet… I went back to Jules' letter.

_It proved easier than I expected to discover the details of the De Chagny finances. Drawing on my experiences as your assistant, I went to the bank purporting to represent a architect who was considering taking him on as a client. I explained that my employer wished to ascertain whether he was both financially capable and had a good history regarding payment._

Jules seemed to have some natural talent for investigation himself. Perhaps we should resume our association. It could be very useful to have another investigator about…

_I can tell you with the highest degree of certainty that no such unexplained payment has been made, either in a lump sum or in installments. There is nothing mysterious in their financial records, and neither the Count nor the Countess gamble._

_I remain, sir, your obedient servant, _

_Jules Bernard_.

I had to read it over again, to be sure I was reading it correctly.

Where, then, did Anne get the hundred and fifty thousand francs?

Or, conversely, how did De Chagny pay her?

It had to have come from somewhere, but where?

And if not from De Chagny, then who?

* * *

**A/N:** This chapter should have gone up last night, but we had a power outage, for the second time in a week. Therefore, quite a bit of the next chapter is already written, and only waits to be put into the computer. Blame the terrible weather! 

Hello folks! Well, with the next chapter piling up on me, I'll just shorten the shout-outs this time, and hope you'll forgive me.

**MetalMyersJason:** is it possible you skipped chapter 24 somehow? It was all Erik, and you had not commented on it. Perhaps that is why it seemed so long since my last update.

Thank you to **Lucia, Bella, Sue Raven, Allegratree, HDKingsbury, Josette, Pickledishkiller, Erik for President, Nota Lone, Butterfly Guitar, and Awoman**, who is now in Jordan. Keep safe.


	27. M'sieu Roget Asks Too Much

**A/N:** In this chapter, Anne thinks about her religious beliefs. I do not believe precisely what she does, nor do I hold her beliefs up as a cosmic truth. I do stand behind them as being what _Anne_ thinks and believes.

Approximately three chapters into this fic, I realized that Anne was going to think, say, and do things I wouldn't (and sometimes disapproved of), and that if I changed that, I was going to be writing a wish-fulfillment fantasy (AKA a Mary-Sue). I decided to be true to the character, and let her develop as seemed natural to her.

As for my own beliefs, I would have to know you for a while before I would be comfortable discussing them with you. Some things are not for public consumption.

* * *

**Anne:**

"Good afternoon, Madame Touchet. And this must be your little boy. What's his name, Erik?"

My son nodded. I stroked his hair. He was leaning up against me, and he'd wrapped the sides of my skirt around him like a shawl, hiding himself in them as best he could.

"It's very nice to see you. Is this for me? Why, thank you. How kind.,."

I'd made tea-cakes, both for M'sieu Roget and for Father Anselm, with grated carrot and courgettes in them, and with a bit of chocolate drizzled over top. I'd done it out of politeness, and to help turn them up sweet, if need be. I had more sweetening in my hand bag: my wallet of checks. If they was willing to teach my boy, I was willing to show I was thankful.

We was in the music-practice room downstairs from the church, where there was a piano and chairs and such. "Now, Erik, your mother tells me you're musical. You've even got a little violin! How sweet…Could you sing a song for me, Erik?"

I could tell straight off this wasn't going to work. Monsieur Roget wasn't smiling at us, he was just baring his teeth. His face was stretched out till it looked shiny and brittle, and he was using a fake cheery voice what sounded as forced as it was. My boy isn't a fool. He can tell when folk is being nice, and when they're only trying to sound it. Could be as I should have taken Erik and left right then, but I didn't.

"Must I, Mam?" he turned his face up to me.

"It's only polite. Go ahead."

"But I don't know any songs! I can't remember none!" He didn't want to be here doing this. I couldn't blame him.

"What about the Gaudete from Christmas, then? You been singing it around the kitchen for months."

"All right…" He stood up straight, let go my skirts and sang. "Gaudete! Gaudete, Christus est natus ex Maria virgine, Gaudete! Tempus adest gratiae…"

I sat down and took out my crochet. It helps me to have work in hand, it's soothing.

So. _He_ was here. I'd counted on him not finding us, on his staying under his opera house or on his dying. I could have chosen any name. I could've gone to any cemetery and picked out a name of some man what wasn't going to turn up no matter what, but no. I had to go and give my son the name he had a right to.

"Very well sung…" M'sieu Roget wasn't faking that time. He said, "Amazing. I don't know that I've ever heard a better boy soprano. I wonder if not having a nose…" Then M'sieu Roget saw me looking at him. I wasn't glaring or nothing…just looking, but he remembered his manners. "Ah, that is, let's try you on some scales, shall we?" The fake heartiness was back. He struck a key on the piano. "We'll start here, and I want you to sing 'Ah-ah-ah' up the scale and back down again. Like this." He sang it once, to show my boy what he wanted.

"Ah-Ah-Ah," Erik sang.

One thing what both the Countess and Doctor Bayre said of _him_ was that he was cleverer than anything. If he'd been to Lyons, like M'sieu Khan said, he'd have found the marriage register. He might even have got the whole story out of the Registrar.

My boy was going up higher and higher, a bit at a time. I kept on looping yarn and hooking.

He might know what it was I done to get it written in. I don't like to remember that night. It was a dreadful long one, him clutching and sweating. I felt dirty, afterwards, in ways I couldn't wash off. I can't go dwelling on it, though. That wouldn't do me any good.

If he found out about the Bontriomphes, and if they talked, if they told him I owned the place—then I was in for it. What could I do? Pay him with money he could go to court and say was rightfully his?

Why'd he have to come here, anyway? Did he hear about the inn where the cook had an ugly little boy, and come on purpose?

"Did I do something wrong, M'sieu? Is that why you stopped?" asked my Erik.

"I stopped because the piano doesn't go any higher—even if your voice does." There was a right nasty edge to his voice. "How much higher _can_ you go?"

"I—I don't rightly know, cause folks say they can't hear me no more, and dogs start howling something awful." said my lad, in a tiny little voice.

M'sieu Roget was giving him a look what wasn't nice at all. "That isn't—."

"I imagines you must be about done, then," I said, as pleasant as I could manage. "Erik, love, I want to light some candles afore we sees Father Anselm, but I don't know who to choose. Can you go up and help me choose the saints? I'll follow in a moment, there's a good lad."

"Yes, Mam!" He ran off.

I turned back to M'sieu Roget. "Sir, you can't say as he isn't musical." I put in, before he could get a word out.

"I _can_ say he isn't natural! No living creature ought to look like that! _Or_ sing like that—."

"Sir, I understand. I do. He rattles most folk, at least at first, but it—it's only his face. It don't go no deeper nor that. We've been coming here for years, and you must have seen him before—."

"From a distance! You and your family always sit in the back, and no wonder!"

"Sir, please! There isn't nothing wrong with my hearing—nor his. I've heard of a fellow called Mozart, what was writing music when he weren't no older than my little lad—."

"Mozart couldn't sing notes outside the range of human hearing!" He was somewhat quieter.

"Then you don't want to do it?"

"No." he bit out.

"I see." I got out my wallet of checks and my fountain pen. "Might it be, sir, that there's something needed about here, in the music line? An electric bellows for the organ, p'rhaps? Or new robes for the choir? Maybe a new piano? Just tell me how much you might be needing." I waited.

"It isn't—I shouldn't—."

"In the years to come, it may be as he'll be making a name for himself in the world of music, sir, and you could say you was his teacher."

"I—if you were to put a mask on him, then perhaps—." M'sieu Roget began.

"Ah." The wallet and pen went back in my handbag. "There you've hit on the one thing I wouldn't do to further his education. You'd only have to look at him for a couple of hours twice a week, sir, but I got to be his mother every day of his life. I've always told him he shouldn't and can't hide from the world, that he's got nothing he's got to hide from the world, and if I has him put on a mask, I'd be proving myself a—a hypocrite. Thank you for your time, sir, and I hope you'll enjoy the cake."

I went up to find my boy in the tiny side chapel, what isn't hardly bigger than a closet. He looked up at me, and I could see tears glinting all around in the lashes of his eyes.

"He don't want to teach me, do he, Mam? He thinks I'm too ugly to teach."

He was getting older fast. "Dearheart, after talking to him—and he was willing to be your teacher—I don't want him teaching you. He isn't near good enough."

He looked at me for a long time, not blinking, and then he nodded. "I like M'sieu Makepeace better—but—do you think he'll get all mad like M'sieu Roget did, once he sees me?"

"No, love. I'm sure he wouldn't, cause—cause he _has_ seen you, from out of his window. Now, who shall it be?"

"The Virgin, cause's she's God's Mam, and Saint Anne, cause she's yours, and—Is there a Saint Erik?"

Times like this, when he's being so brave and good, it seems to me as I'm looking at him. "I don't think so, love, cause I checked years ago."

"Then Saint Francis of Assisi, cause he loved animals and we do, too." he decided.

"Then put the coins in the box, love, and pass me one of those long matches, please."

We stood there in silence for a space.

It's been years since I made a full confession. When I'd got into the box and tried to explain what all I done, what with the babies and the deceiving and the registrar, I couldn't, no matter how I wanted to, cause I couldn't see how I was going to make things right, and stop lying and deceiving. I've never lied to Father Anselm, or any other confessor—I just don't tell him about those things.

I did tell him that Erik's father and I wasn't married in the church, cause his father didn't believe, but the record was in the registry at Lyons—all true, as far as it went. He did read me a lecture on how I'd been living in sin, but all told, he wasn't so harsh on me. Not like he could've been. He seems to be a practical minded sort—after all, I was here, my boy was here, and the important thing was to live right, now and in the future. He did tell me that when my husband returned, I shouldn't go back to living with him as his wife until we was married proper.

Back then, that made me smile to myself.

I think about God, now and then. For a while, now, it's seemed to me that the Bible is to God what a map is to the country—something put down on paper by men, trying to describe something what can't truly be put down that way.

As for Heaven and Hell—it seems to me that when you come to the end and die, it's like coming home from school or from work, to your Mam and Da. And they ask how your day went, and you tells them, and then there's a bit of supper, and comfort and rest. It may be that your day wasn't such a good one, but it was the day you had.

Maybe you done something bad, and then you've got to take your punishment, as I might make Erik go stand in the corner. "I told you, _thou shalt not kill_. How much clearer do I got to put it? Go get in that lake of fire and don't come out until I say you can." Not out of meanness, but because they want you to be better. And after a while, they do let you out.

"Do you understand now, what it was you done wrong?"

"Yes."

"And you're not going to do it again, are you?"

"No—do you still love me?"

"Of course I do. Come here and let me give you a hug."

And then you go off and get some rest, cause it was a long day, no matter how what went on. I'd have there be Heaven for everybody, the best and the worst of us, all ending up the same, because from what I know of people, we're all guilty of _something_, but we're also all of us lost, hurting, tired, cold and hungry. There isn't none of us as isn't in need of a bit of supper and a rest at the end of it all.

I don't tell these sorts of things to anybody, especially not a religious man, cause I don't need to hear how bad I'm wrong or get laughed at for trying to think all these big things, and me only a cook. But I think them, and that's enough for me.

"All right—it's time we went to see Father Anselm." I said, after a while.

"Mam—do we have to? Can't we just go home?"

"Yes, love, we have to. He said he'd see us, and I promised we'd come. Then we'll go home. Can you be brave and growed up a little longer, for me?"

"Yes, Mam," he said, dutifully.

I could tell straight off that it was going to go better with the priest. He greeted us, thanked me for the cake, which he turned over to the housekeeper, and offered us seats in his study, which smelled a little of pipe-smoke.

"Now, Madame Touchet, what is it that I can do for you and your son? Hello, Erik." His smile was real. I liked that.

"Father, my Erik here is an awful clever boy. He's so bright that he's already learned near everything I can teach him. He can read and write all ready…"

It ended with Father Anselm agreeing to teach him for two hours on Mondays and Wednesdays, providing Erik did well, paid attention, and didn't wiggle.

It might even be as I'd get them two hours to myself. That'd be nice.

And, as I'd sat there while Father Anselm tried Erik on his different books and suchlike, I'd got to thinking. It wasn't no use for me to go wondering what I was going to do, and not doing it. Maybe it would be the right thing to do, and maybe it would be wrong, but I was going to send a note along on the supper tray, for 'M'sieu Makepeace', saying as I'd go by the cottage after I'd put Erik to bed, so's we could meet and talk. I'd let the lad play for him, as was planned.

M'sieu Khan said as he thought _he'd_ loved the boy from the moment he laid eyes on him.

If I found _him_ to be a rational, reasonable sort of man it might be as we could work something out…

* * *

**Carrot-Zucchini Tea Cakes with a Drizzle of Chocolate **

The courgettes which Anne mentions are the same thing as zucchini—but Anne isn't Italian!

2 ¾ cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking soda

2 teaspoons cinnamon

1 teaspoon ground ginger

1 teaspoon ground nutmeg

½ teaspoon ground cloves

½ teaspoon salt

1 cup raisins or dried cranberries

1 cup walnuts, coarsely chopped

1 ½ cups finely grated carrot

1 ½ cups finely grated zucchini

(You can substitute canned pumpkin puree for either or both of these ingredients, or alter the proportions—1 cup zucchini to 2 cups carrots, for example. The important thing is that you add 3 cups of whatever you want to use.)

4 eggs

1 ½ cups light brown sugar

¼ cup walnut oil—a gourmet or specialty store should have it. Once open, walnut oil can go rancid. If you smell it and it smells bad, don't use it. It should have a pleasant nutty aroma.

¾ cup canola oil

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Begin by toasting the walnuts in a non-stick pan on the stove top. Toast on medium heat until golden-brown, stirring with a spatula and watching carefully to make sure they don't get too brown or burn. This will fill your house with a wonderful roasting nut smell. Toasting times may vary, and they will start to go brown very suddenly. Remove from heat and allow to cool.

Sift the flour, and all the dry ingredients down to the salt, into a large bowl. Add the raisins (or dried cranberries) and the walnuts, and stir to combine.

In a separate bowl, mix the grated vegetables. Set it to the side, but handy.

Beat the eggs, sugar and oils together in your largest mixing bowl until thoroughly smooth. Add the carrots and zucchini. Blend until just smooth. Add dry ingredients a cup at a time, beating them in well.

Pour into greased and floured cupcake pans, or into two loaf or ring pans, no larger than six cups each. For cup-cakes, bake 20-25 minutes, or until tester comes out clean. For the other pans, bake 30-35 minutes or until the tester comes out clean.

Allow to cool for ten minutes on a rack before removing from pan.

Store for one day at room temperature in an airtight container, to allow the flavor to develop. Can be kept in the refrigerator for 5 days after that. They freeze beautifully.

Before serving, apply:

Chocolate-Walnut Drizzle Glaze

1 ounce bittersweet chocolate

1 ounce milk chocolate

1 tablespoon walnut oil

Break the chocolate into pieces and put them into the top of a double boiler. If you do not have one, fill a large saucepan halfway with water and bring it to a simmer. Put the chocolate into a small stainless steel bowl that will fit in the saucepan comfortably. Add the oil. Put the bowl with the chocolate into the saucepan of simmering water, being careful to get no water in the chocolate and oil mixture. Stir while heating, until smooth. Remove from the heat, and, using a spoon, drizzle over the tea-cakes, like a Jackson Pollock painting. Allow to set for at least three hours at room temperature before serving. You may lick the spoon afterward as long as it is not too hot.

* * *

**A/N: Next Chapter—The Meeting of Anne and Erik Sr!**

This particular'Gaudete', which is part of the Christmas Mass, is very old and traditional. If you'd like to hear a sample, go to Amazon, and search for the musical group Steeleye Span. It's on their album _Below the Salt_. You can hear a 30 second clip of it.

Shout-Outs: **Allegratree:** Quite all right. I understand completely.

**Lucia:** Thank you. You can expect a proper e-mail soon…

**Bella:** As you yourself was so kind as to say, take your time on getting back to me. I'll be here.

**Nota Lone:** ;-) Love it. I have baffled you. Here's the update.

**MetalMyersJason**: Thank you. Mysteries, plots and sauces are best when well thickened.

**Butterfly Guitar:** Just as a hint, there is an important clue in Chapter 14, Planning a Wedding Feast, which no one has commented on as yet…

**Alittlerayofsunshine:** Oh, lots and lots of chapters and story left to go.

**HDKingsbury:** Oh, no! I did that once, and it was awful. I'll write you soon.

**Sat-Isis: **Glad I've got you puzzled. Did you like Erik's imagined version of your scenario?

**Sue Raven:** Well, next chapter, Erik's going to find out Jules got some of his information straight out of a newspaper article…

**Sarah Crawford:** Hardly sooner said than done.

And of course, thank you to **Pickledishkiller** and **Erik** **For President**.


	28. The Deluge

**Erik: **

I was reading the newspapers before dinner, mainly to take my mind off Anne, and off what she knew. I had not a single idea what might come of it, nor did I know what I ought to do. Should I write to her, and if so, how much should I say? I was a bit afraid to speculate or imagine what might happen once we met.

As I read, I came across a headline which read _Count and Countess Robbed at Gunpoint_, and incredibly, discovered that it was about none other than Christine and Raoul De Chagny! It was also the source of much of Jules' information, as it gave every relevant detail about where they lived and about their children, as it told how, on the way back from a party in Geneva, their carriage was stopped by four thieves who held them up and robbed them of several hundred francs in cash, jewels worth as much as two million francs, and a sable cape belonging to the Countess.

It went on to describe the gems, 'the count's perfectly matched diamond shirt-studs and cuff links, each of which was no smaller than two carats apiece'—I always knew he was a dandy—and 'the countess's jewels, comprised of a pair of chased and jeweled bracelets, an enamel, diamond and gold corsage ornament'—whatever that might be—' a precious diamond circlet which the countess had worn on her beautiful blonde hair, and an exceptionally valuable diamond necklace, which is one of the notable De Chagny heirlooms.' The police of Geneva were on the case.

The article continued, saying that the Count and Countess were unharmed, although badly shaken, and that 'it is said that the Countess's nerves are badly disordered by the ordeal.' I could well imagine—she always was a fragile little thing. She must have looked very beautiful bedecked in all that finery. I could imagine the candlelight on her hair, and the diamonds in it.

That article made up my mind for me on one thing—whatever else happened, the diamond which I had Bontriomphe's jeweler remove from Ayesha's collar and reserve for me would go to Anne and not to Christine. Clearly, Christine had plenty of diamonds already.

Darius knocked on my door to tell me dinner had arrived. I followed him to the dining room, where the table was set and Nadir was waiting. "If you'll share the salmon with us, we have a chickpea stew that's well worth eating."

"By all means." I said. "Haven't you had that dish once before? I seem to recall you mentioning it."

"Of course." He replied. "That's how I know it's worth eating. I requested it again. There's a note for you." He pointed to an envelope that was leaning against my water glass.

It was addressed simply to 'Monsieur Makepeace', but I recognized the looping script as Anne's, both from the marriage register and from the documents in the files at the Bontriomphe offices. I regarded it warily for a long moment, while Darius loaded my plate for me. What would it contain? A warning, a plea, a threat? Until I opened it, I could not know.

I broke the seal, took out the single sheet of paper, and read: _'We got to sit down and talk about things. After he's gone off to sleep, I'll come back out to the cottage. Madame Anne **Touchet**.'_ The 'Touchet' was written very boldly, defiantly, although whether that assertion was for my benefit or her own, I could not tell.

"What is it?" Nadir asked.

"Anne will be coming here to talk after she puts him to bed." I answered. "Nadir—what do I do? What do I say?"

"Keep in mind whatever it is you want to accomplish, then speak and behave accordingly. And remember, she's more scared of you than you are of her."

I wasn't so sure about that.

What he meant, of course, was that I had to decide what was more important to me—possibly getting to see and teach my son, or gaining that slippery, elusive truth I had sought for what now seemed a lifetime, although it had only been three days.

On the other hand, there was a truth I had sought after for a lifetime, without really knowing it, until Anne had cast a light on it that threw it into sharp relief.

She loved the boy, and had made a home and a family for him. She had even made others accept him, despite his face.

Was it really just my face that had made me unlovable, unloved, or was there some other intrinsic quality about me, which I had and my son lacked, or vice versa?

I ate. Anne had not allowed her upset to affect the quality of her cooking, and the salmon in a honey lemon sauce was excellent, while the chickpea stew was indeed a rice dish of profundity.

Afterward, my son and I did indeed have our violin duet, rendered all the more poignant for me, not knowing whether this would be our first—or our last.

I waited in the sitting room—I could hardly receive her in my bedroom!— later, with my pocket watch in front of me, wondering what was going on over in the kitchen house. Was she now watching him brush his teeth? Was she reading to him about germ theory, and looking up what that strange word _theory_ meant? Was she tucking him in, was she kissing him good night?

When would she come? I was dreading it and I was anticipating it eagerly, both at the same time.

After an eternity, I heard footsteps on the gravel walk, on the wooden porch, the door opening. I turned to see her slip inside, and rose to my feet.

She was pale, so pale her freckles drifted on her skin like cinnamon sprinklings on cream. Her eyes were enormous and wary. "Hallo?" she said, experimentally.

"Good-good evening." I managed to say. "Won't you sit down?" I gestured to an overstuffed chair, so that she could sit in the light where I could see her, and I in the shadows where she could not see me very well. I wanted to make this as easy as possible for her. I wanted her goodwill. I wanted to see my son.

"Thank you." she said, and we sat.

There was a long moment of silence when neither of us could think of what to say.

We simply looked at each other. She had wrapped herself against the slight chill of the night in a knitted shawl of deep purple that made me think of clematis flowers, and she must have only just washed her face, for strands of wet hair clung to her face like the tendrils of a vine. She was lovely. She was also—very real, which was an odd way of thinking of her, but Christine and my mother, who were very nearly identical, were ethereal creatures, delicately made, and fine-boned. I had fancied that I could see Christine's soul just underneath her skin.

Anne had very few visible bones, and she was very—sturdily built. Where Christine was slight, Anne was substantial, and where Christine was rounded, Anne was—embarrassingly voluptuous. It was disconcerting, despite the fact that she was fully covered.

"I don't know where to start." she admitted. "You been to Lyons."

"Yes."

"You been to the Registry Office?" she asked.

"Yes, I have. I know—everything. M'sieu Giscard told me."

"Oh." she said, unhappily.

"I've also been to the Bontriomphe law offices."

Her next "Oh." was even more subdued.

"I—" I paused, while I thought of what to say. "I want to thank you. For not—making him live down in the cellar. For not keeping him in a filthy cage. For not beating him when he lied about brushing his teeth." The words came pouring out of me, and I began to tremble with the force of the emotions that were wracking me. "For his room with those bright colors. For picking berries with him in the light of day. For bringing him up so he can not only bear to look at himself in a mirror, but make faces in it. For holding him—for nursing him—for loving him." I was shaking uncontrollably now, like a leaf in the wind.

"What's wrong?" In a flash she was across the room, kneeling at my feet and looking up into my face. "You come over ill again?" Her hand lifted to the forehead of my mask, paused, and she felt the back of my neck instead. "You haven't got a fever."

A sob escaped me. "No—I'm not ill. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." If I had cried the two nights before, it was as nothing to the torrent that escaped me at her gentle, caring touch. She stood up, only to sit right beside me on the sofa, where she slid her left arm around my shoulders, encouraging me to rest my head against her shoulder, which I began to flood with my weeping.

"There, dear, it's all right." she murmured, and began to sway us back and forth a little. "It's all right. You don't got to be sorry. It's all right." Her right hand slid up into my hair, where she fumbled with the mask's string, finally removing it, and I let her. I did not question why she should do such an extraordinary thing. I merely let her. I had been so starved for touch. I didn't need to know why. This was a moment of grace, and I could just let it happen, I could just let go…

The floodgates were breached now, the release more profound—though of a different nature—than that which had engendered the boy. The contact certainly lasted longer.

How long we sat like that, I do not know. She rocked me, stroked my hair, told me over and over that it was all right, until at last I was freed of a burden I had almost not known I carried, having grown accustomed to its weight. "If you're going to do much more of this, do you mind if I switch shoulders? Only, this one's soaked." she asked, tremulously.

"No—it's—I'm all right." I sat up. My face was wet.

I had no handkerchief, having no nose, but she produced a square of well-laundered cotton from her pocket. "Here you go, " she said, and dabbed at my eyes, as if I were her son, too. She looked into my face, and her face did not change. She wasn't shocked, or horrified, or disgusted.

"Thank you." I said, hoarsely. I could not possibly have seemed threatening to her at this point. Pathetic, yes, but hardly a threat.

"You're welcome. For that, and all them other things you said." She looked as if she had been doing some crying as well, but she looked much better—less strained—than when she came in. The color had returned to her face. The constraint between us had been broken, at least for the moment.

Then she bowed her head, her gaze dropping to her hands, and the handkerchief in them. She began to tie and untie knots in it as she spoke.

"I imagines you got a lot of questions as you want to be asking, and I can't go answering them all, cause I gave my word, and to more nor one person, too. But, seeing as how you've a right to the truth more nor any other but—but him, I'll write and ask if I can tell you. I made up my mind afore I come out here, as I was going to tell you the truth. I'm sick of lying. I want to stop lying. So you can go ahead and ask away. I'll answer what I can, and when I can't, I'll say as much."

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable." I replied. "I think that I can wait to learn some of the things I want to know, if I know they will be answered someday."

"I can't promise nothing—."

"I understand. Well, to begin—when is his birthday?" I asked.

"June 21st—Midsummer's day."

"June 21st." I repeated. "Was he born in a convent-hospital near the Swiss border?"

She flinched a little, and was silent for a while. "Yes." she said, finally. "But I can't tell you more nor that, right now."

"I'm sorry—I won't ask for those sorts of details, now—How did you find out my full name?"

" I met a man on a train. He was a doctor, Doctor Bayre…"

**TBC…

* * *

**

**Chickpea Stew:**

1 large onion

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 28 oz can diced tomatoes

1 teaspoon hot Madras curry powder, or 1 teaspoon regular/mild curry powder and 1/8 teaspoon hot pepper flakes

1 teaspoon sugar

½ teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon turmeric

2 14 ½-15 oz cans chickpeas or garbanzo beans, rinsed and drained

½ teaspoon garam masala (a spice blend)

Chop the onion, and sauté it in the olive oil over medium heat until the onion is softened and translucent. Add the tomatoes, the curry powder, the hot pepper, if you are using it, the sugar, salt and turmeric. Simmer for about 8-10 minutes or until it is thickened, stirring occasionally. Add the chickpeas and the garam masala, stir well, and simmer for about 10 minutes more. Serve over peanut rice.

**Peanut Rice:**

1 cup long grain white rice, uncooked. Basmati is nice.

2 ½ cups cold water

½ teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon turmeric

½ cup frozen petite peas

½ cup unsalted roasted peanuts

Bring water to a boil in a medium-sized sauce pan. Add the rice, the salt, and the turmeric. Reduce heat and simmer for 10 minutes, without stirring. Stirring will agitate the cooking starches and produce tougher rice. Add the peas, putting them in on top of the rice, and not stirring them in. Cook an additional ten minutes, keeping an eye on the pan so the water does not boil away and the rice does not burn. When the rice is soft, remove from the heat and add the peanuts. Stir. Serve with chickpea stew.

This meal is vegetarian, very quick and easy to make, and very good for you, being low in fat and full of protein. It is also delicious.

* * *

A/N: It's midnight. I can either post or write shout-outs, not both. Rest assured I appreciate every one of you—getting reviews makes me very happy. 


	29. The Cliffs

**Anne:**

The only sort of folk what make me feel small is men toffs. That was part of the problem I had talking to that doctor, and the only way I ever managed with the Bontriomphes was that I kept in mind that I was paying them. The trouble was, the _other_ Erik Touchet sounded like the biggest toff I ever come across, in what he said and how he said it, in how he acted, and in how he was dressed, all paint-fresh and tidy. It put me right off him, at first.

But when he began to cry like that, I remembered the boy what was made to live in a boarded-up attic bedroom, whose mother beat him for no more nor being a boy and doing what a boy will do, what was made to wear a mask and never got to play outside. It was that boy I held, and once the mask was off, I liked him better. He looked so much like someone I loved, I couldn't help it. But then I had to talk to him again, and I was minded that he was a toff all over again.

"His name was Barye—I'm sorry, I interrupted. Please, go on." he said.

"I been remembering it wrong, then. I should have had the compartment all to myself, but…"

I went on and told him all about it, leaving out what I said about his mother, being as I didn't want to go and make him mad. He looked wistful, like, when I'd done. We hadn't moved off the sofa, so we was sitting right up next to each other. It was right odd looking at his face, seeing my little lad in him, thinking that would be what my boy will look like when he's a man. Except for being different around the mouth and the eyes. I hope I live to see it.

"That was several lifetimes ago. I'm glad you learned from that sad example. As bad as that was, as badly as she treated me—there were some virtues in her. She was intelligent, and she was a good teacher. I would not have you think she was—entirely a monster."

He wasn't just talking about his mother, then. I could tell. His voice was something else again. It was like my boy's, yet not.

He looked at me again. He was looking at me like men have been looking at me for years, but on him—it was a hunger like a beggar child looking in a bakery shop window at all the breads and tartlets, baked to rich gold and shining with fruit like jewels, knowing he'll never get to go in and get what all he wants.

"Tell me—why did you go out of your way to take my name?"

"Cause a boy should have his father's name. And I didn't think he'd ever have nothing but your name. I was being sentimental, truth be told. I never thought as I'd meet up with you., and he'd a right to your name. It--it didn't sound as though you was a man who'd be getting married and having another son, and there didn't seem no harm in it. I'm sorry."

"You needn't be. No other woman has ever wanted it, and since I haven't been using it myself, at least somebody was getting some use out of it.", he said, bitterly.

"Anybody'd think you was talking about an old coat or a pair of shears or something. Are you going to go taking this to court…?"

"What? No. What a terrible way to repay you for all that you've done…You're safe from me. I don't want the money, I don't care that you broke the law, and I won't try to take the boy away from you. I would only become his Javert…You—are a far better parent to him than I could be. I have no experience in it, you see, while you, coming as you do from such a large and loving family, obviously do. He needs you far more than he could possibly need me."

I wasn't so sure about that, but I'd been thinking hard, the last few hours. His voice, though, it was doing something to me. It was making what I had in mind to say, when the time should come, a lot easier to come out with. Despite him being a toff.

"Who's Javert?" I asked.

"He was a man who owned me for several years, after I ran away from my mother and Dr. Barye…He kept me in a cage. He beat me, bound me, gagged me, and put me on display for money, to anyone who would pay to see me." His hand went up to his face, like he was just remembering he hadn't a mask on. "In the end, I killed him."

"You wouldn't do that to _him_?" I cried out. "You wouldn't!" If I couldn't trust him with the boy, then what I had thought of wouldn't work, never.

"The difference between living with you here and living with me…wherever I might go with him, would be as great as the difference between my life with my mother, and the existence I led with Javert. He would hate me."

"That Javert done all them things to you?" Now that I saw what he was getting at, it was all right, which was for the good, because I wanted to at least give things a try.

"And he was going to do worse."

"Can't say as I blame you for killing him. I'd do as much, if somebody snatched my lad and done all that to him. Have you—have you killed a lot of people, since then?"

"Yes. But not for many years, and no one at all for more than four years, not even accidentally. That part of my life is past now. Although I came close to it with M'sieu Giscard—but not that close."

"What did you do that for?"

"For making you…do what you had to, when you had offered him money instead. He should have taken the money. I don't blame you for going with him, because you did it for the boy…but why go to such lengths? Why not simply buy yourself a wedding ring and call yourself a widow, or settle for a simple forged certificate?"

"Cause them dodges is so old they've got whiskers. I wanted proof as could hold water, if ever it was looked into."

"It was very well done—I wish you had not had to endure that, though."

"It isn't something I like thinking about–or talking about, if it comes to that. It weren't pleasant, but it didn't kill me, and I'd like to close this and go on to something else, if you don't mind."

"I'm sorry." he said.

"That's all right…Do you really want to teach the lad, like what you told him?"

"Yes, I do, very much. Was that why you came to the cottage, because you found out?" was what he said.

"That was it. He got all confused, and it come out. Is teaching him proper, like how to read and write music, not just play it, is that the sort of learning what takes a while?"

"It can take years—perhaps many years, if he is to learn to play different instruments, and to understand the infinite aspects of music, its forms, its styles."

"And could you—if you wanted to—teach him all that?" I asked.

"Yes. As far as his talent and inclination can take him."

"What are you thinking of doing now, aside from maybe teaching the boy? I knows you was an architect, and a musician, and all manner of things, and your friend, M'sieu Khan said as you hadn't no occupation, now. Where do you stand for money?"

"I have enough for my present needs, and will be much better off soon, once some property I own has been sold. As for what I will do—I have a plan to set myself up as a private investigator, and look into matters and into people's backgrounds, for a fee. It was you who inspired me, in fact. I found, once I started looking into the mystery of you and the boy, that I had a taste for that sort of work—and that I enjoy it tremendously."

"What, like Vidocq?" I'd read an old book about him, the man what came up with the idea of the Sureté. He was always disguising himself, always in trouble and chasing after actresses, sometimes a policeman, for a while the chief of the Paris police, and later a private investigator. The reason he was so good at catching crooks was cause he was one himself. I'd liked reading about him; it seemed a right exciting kind of life.

"Yes, rather like Vidocq."

"But you got to have somewhere to live and work from." I pressed

"Yes, I will certainly need that." He sounded and looked sad.

"Do you know where you're going to go?"

"No. Not at present, not as such, no. It would be convenient if it were near a railway, though—since it is the sort of business that could take one all over at a moment's notice."

If I was going to come out with it, now was the time. Even if he was the biggest toff in the world. Even if I was afraid he looked down on me for being what I am.

"Would you—Could you see your way clear to staying here? Evrondes is right on the railway, see, and if you was working out from here, you could teach the boy regular, when you wasn't detecting something. I don't know how you was thinking of working it—I mean, if you was teaching him how to read and write music, you'd have to be in the room with him, right?"

"Yes, I would. I had not thought as far as that, however."

"And if you was in the room with him, he'd have to see that you was wearing a mask, see, and he'd be bound to be asking all manner of questions. He's getting to be old enough to think up real tricky ones, too, and he works things out on his own. And—oh, I made such a mess of my life! All these years, I've been telling him about you, this whole story about how his father and me met and made him, and his father—you—had to go away before he was born. You don't know how that's been _eating_ me, you can't imagine—cause he's getting old enough to see through this, faster nor I ever thought he would. It's like I built his whole world out of cards, and it's going to come crashing down!"

"I'm afraid I don't see where you're going with this."

"What I'm asking is this—will you go along with what I've told him, and others, all these years? I'm not saying as _you _should lie, just that you come into our lives as if it _was_ true. You'd live along of us—I knows what you once told the Countess, that you wanted a good wife, and a normal sort of home, and to go out walking of Sundays, and all—I'll—I'll be your wife. I'll make sure your shirts is always done the way you like them, and if you get sick again, I'll look after you. You'd only have to tell me whatever it is you like best to eat, and you'll have it on the table, regular. I don't expect that you should love me, not like what you loved the Countess, when that she was Christine Daaé—but—but if you could like me well enough, I'd be good to you. I would."

* * *

**A/N:** Yes, this IS a short chapter, all because I wanted to end with this cliffhanger! Bwahhaha!

Vidocq was a real person, and his story is a fascinating one, but I will not get into it here and now.

Well! Shout-outs!

**Butterfly Guitar,** you were _absolutely_ correct.

**Kuro kyoko**: I have no idea what ff net might have done with chapter 28. They can be very weird that way. Thank you, and because I do not want you to die, here is an update!

**Phantom Raver:** Yes. _I _was getting choked up while I wrote it, and that's a good indicator.

**Sat-Isis:** Thank you! Turmeric is made from part of the flower of the turmeric plant, dried and ground up. It's sort of a saffron-yellow ochre color, and it's used in a lot of Indian and other ethnic cuisines. It has a mild but distinctive taste that goes well with vegetables, eggs, chicken and seafood.

**HDKingsbury**: Yes indeed, the scene of which you speak will be highly significant….

**Patricia:** Thank you! I sent you an e-mail—did you get it?

**Polly Moopers**: Interesting name….Well, I doubt if this one would have made you cry, but if you or anyone else says you saw it coming, I'm going to have to demand documentary evidence that will stand up in court.

**Sue Raven:** Thank you. I am always glad when people perceive my aims in my writing.

**Sarahbelle:** How can I resist such a plea? Here is more.

**Rozzandmaya**: Thank you! Now when are you going to write more of 'Little Moments'? I haven't forgotten….

**Bella:** I can only wonder what this chapter will do to you… Enjoy!

**Lindaleriel**: Thank you so much. And thank you also to **Nota Lone, An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin,** **Pickledishkiller** and **Erik for President.**


	30. The Lightning

**Erik:**

I almost asked her to repeat herself, but I didn't, simply because the expression on her face spoke just as eloquently. She was hopeful, and she was afraid. Not afraid of me; afraid I might say no.

Instead, I said, very carefully, "Let me be certain I understand you correctly. You are suggesting that I should present myself to M'sieu Hussenot—," I was thinking of the fanciful scenario I had imagined earlier that day—, "and say, 'Hello, I'm the owner of the inn. Madame Touchet will vouch for me. She's my wife, and I would like to see her.'"

"Yes—but maybe not just like how you put it. I was thinking that since folk are bound to recognize your voice, cause you got a lovely voice, that you could say as you'd come here as M'sieu Makepeace for reasons of your own. Then they'll just think you was checking up on me, to see if I'd been true."

She was being exceptionally rational, which added to my incredulity. "You seem to have given this some thought."

"All the while I was making dinner, I thought on this." She nodded. "They'll be right surprised to learn you own this place, but they'll get over it."

"After that, your plan is this: I would move into the kitchen house with you and the boy, eat at the same table, live in the same rooms—."

"We eat at the kitchen table." she interrupted. "I know that, being a—a gentleman like what you is, it won't seem like much, and if you'd rather, you could eat in the posh dining room, but you'd have your meals faster and warmer if you ate—."

"—Sleep in the same bed?" I finished.

"I thought that over, too." she nodded again. "See, I didn't confess to everything, but I confessed to Father Anselm as we wasn't married in the church, so I'd want us to be married by him first. He'd do it, and gladly, rather nor see me live in sin. We'd be married for real, then, so, yes. Once we've married."

"I thought you said you weren't going to lie to me." I snapped at her.

"But I haven't!" she protested. "Why do you think I did?"

"Do you really mean that you'd—you'd sleep with me?"

"Well—yes. We'd be married. I wouldn't _cheat_ you." she said, with surprise and a hint of indignation in her voice. "Or cheat _on_ you, neither. I'd want you to stay, and be happy, if you can be. I'd want it to work."

_Cheated_. What a heavy, intensely appropriate word that was. I did feel cheated. It was the word that best applied to my life—cheated of a face like everyone else's, cheated out of the love of my mother, cheated out of the education I should have had, of the place in the world I could have had, cheated by my own heart, by loving Christine, who could not give me what I wanted, even though she had tried. Cheated, cheated, cheated…

And here was Anne, offering me everything…And she knew, as Christine had not, what it was she was offering, what it was I wanted. She had held me when I cried. It wasn't as if she couldn't stand me, or if she were offering out of pity.

I suddenly realized that for once, I was not the supplicant, begging for just a few scraps, a glance, a kind word! She was pleading with me to stay!

If I could believe her…if I could trust her…

"You aren't already pregnant by someone else, and in need of a visible husband, are you?" I asked, warily. Not that it would necessarily be a deal breaker; I was prepared to take what I could get, but I wanted to know.

"No." she replied. "I haven't been near a man in that way since I had to go with that Giscard, and that was over three years ago. In a place as small as this, I got to keep my good name, for my own sake as well as his, besides not wanting anything more on my conscience. Mind you, it hasn't always been easy. I wonder my bathwater don't boil when I sit down."

I wasn't sure the last comment had been meant for me to hear. She had muttered it sotto voce. "Ah—how—experienced are you?"

"Counting Giscard—I only ever went with three men, and only one of them for any time. Alain Mercier, that was, what sweet-talked me into running off with him to Paris, and ran through all my money. He…was the first."

"And if Giscard was the last, what about the man in between?"

"That—I really don't want to go talking about that. I can't go talking about that. Please, don't go pushing me. It was only the once, and it weren't for the fun of it. I'm not proud of what I done, I set out in life thinking I was going to be better nor I am, but it's done, and I can be better _now_. I have been better, since then, and I'll keep on that way. Truly."

Her agitation was such that I deduced there was an especial shame in that encounter. In Paris without money…a single act performed, most probably for money, that she was deeply ashamed of—I could understand that. She was far less stained than I was, after all.

I paused to think for a moment. Where was the familiar black mood that perpetually sucked at me? Where was the massive weight I struggled under? They were gone, and in their place was something new, something utterly unfamiliar. _Hope._

"If there are more children—." I began.

She lit up. The light came into her face as the strain left it, and she grinned, showing her teeth and gums. Had I thought she had an unfortunate smile, one that destroyed her beauty? I had been wrong. I liked it. I could get to be very fond of that smile. "You'll stay, then? We'll be married? The lad'll have his father?"

"A moment! If there are more children, what of the likelihood that they, too, will look like me—and like him. What of that risk?" It was extremely likely that there would be more children, considering that my son had been conceived as a result of the only time I had ever lain with a woman, and that Anne came from an exceptionally fertile family.

"I shouldn't care!" she declared, passionately. "It might even be as it would be for the best, or else he'd go thinking he wasn't loved no more. Except—that it'd be right dreadful on the girls. That worries me some, but—but you can't go living life fearful of what might happen. You deal with it when it does, that's all." Her eyes searched my face—my naked face, for I had never replaced the mask once she had removed it.

It might not work. It probably wouldn't work, in the long run. Something was sure to spoil it, but while it lasted…it could be good. It would certainly be more of a real life than I had ever known. And perhaps it would work, despite everything—despite me.

I remembered something I had meant to bring up. "One thing, however. No more black-market truffles. No more trafficking with truffle smugglers and poachers. I don't need to find out that my wife's been arrested for—."

"But I don't go buying from poachers nor smugglers! Who told you I did?"

"M'sieu Aristide Bontriomphe did."

"Ohhh! It's cause he's always going on about wanting receipts for them, and I won't give him any cause I can't give him any."

"Yes. That, I believe, is the problem. If you aren't buying them legally and you aren't getting them under the table, where are they coming from?"

"It—I don't—look, it's a secret. You got to swear you won't tell, cause otherwise we'll have all sort of trespassers and evil buggers going over every inch of them woods—."

"Don't tell me—you dig them up yourself?"

She nodded, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Me and the lad and Truffle go out on our afternoons off, when it's the season."

"There's one mystery solved!" I laughed; a strange sound to my ears. It was all right—it really was all right. I was there, and Anne was there, and I was laughing, simply because I was happy—

"You'll come tomorrow, then? You'll come home?"

"Yes—yes, I will!—Can I kiss you?" I asked impulsively, and immediately felt a pang of dread. What would she do? What would she say?

She grew quiet—not a sad quiet, but a serious one. Her lively humor lurked in her eyes, and around the corners of her mouth "Yes. But no more nor that, not till we're married proper."

I wasn't sure what I should do. She leaned forward, and I took her face in my hands. She smelled a little of honeysuckle, and of vanilla. Then I touched my mouth to hers, and the kiss that followed was like a bolt of lightning, illuminating the future.

* * *

**A/N:** Short chapter, I know, but it's the length it needed to be.

**Shout-outs:**

**Galabesh**-- I understand your reaction. I hope you enjoyed the rest of the story, too.

**Patricia:** I hope this chapter lived up to what you were expecting.

**Nota Lone**: Watch it, or I'll have to smack you with my slipper! Phop, indeed!

**Bluedrake:** I'm not saying any more than that the robbery will turn out to be highly significant. Watch for more references to it.

**Kuro Kyoko:** Thanks! Gosh, a lot of people seem to think I'm evil, but they love me anyway!

**Lucia:** Yes, a toff does mean someone who is a snob, stuck up and arrogant, and a member of the upper classes, specifically. Anne feels that Erik is intimidating because he is a gentleman.

**Sat-Isis:** Willy Wonka slash? O--o...I'm so sorry.

**Sarahbelle:** At the moment, nothing is wrong. But that may change...

**Allegratree:** Yes, the repetitions were intentional. Anne was nervous.

**Sue Raven:** Now you know exactly what Anne has in mind--a marriage of convenience, but a true one.

**HDKingsbury:** It's not that I don't intend to answer e-mails, it's that it's sometimes a choice between a new chapter or a bunch of e-mails. I will write soon. (famous last words)

**Phantom Raver:** Well, my pen name is taken from Terry Prachett, I began the story itself with a quote from him, and I own every book he's published in the USA, so...

**An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin.** Gosh, you're entertaining when you're like this...

And thank you to **Bella, Ayezur, and Erik for President**...btw, did you get the e-mail?


	31. Catch Me If You Can

**Anne:**

"No, dearheart, you can't help with the chocolate sauce right now. I need for you to go upstairs, give your face a good wash, comb your hair, and put on your good shirt from yesterday." I told my son.

"I can't do that, Mam." he said.

"Why not?" I looked up from the profiteroles I was filling. We'd only just got breakfast out the door, and lunch wasn't underway yet. After breakfast was when he'd said he would come, so he could be walking in any minute now. I wanted my boy to look his best when he met his Da for the first time.

"Cause I got grease on it from the cart axel yesterday, and you said as it wasn't like to come out—."

"Oh. That's right. I forgot. Put on—your blue and white striped one, then."

"It's too big."

"I know, but it could be as you've grown into it some, since Christmas."

"But whyyy?" he asked.

"Because. And I don't got to explain if I don't want, cause I'm the mother around here." I sent him up the stairs, pouting as he went. I went back to the profiteroles, and had half-a-dozen more filled when Virginié came in.

"Good morning." I greeted her. "How might you be this morning?"

"Very well, Madame. I'm here with a message from my grandmother. She would like to see you this morning."

"I've no problem with that. She can step over any time she pleases." I filled another profiterole.

"I—um, think she means for you to come to her, Madame." Virginié scuffed her feet on the floor.

"I'm afeared I'm a touch busy this morning, but I'll be more nor glad to speak with her, should she come over." I returned, and Virginié went back to the main house.

Madame Hussenot and I had been playing queen-of-the-castle for years now. She thinks as I should be at her beck and call, like all the maids and waitresses, and I don't agree. I like her right well, but I only go when called if there's inn business, or when asked as a guest of an evening. If she wanted to see me, she could take the trouble to come herself.

In some ways, it was a pity she should have to find out I was paying her wages. Things was comfortable the way they was, and after today, they would change. But there wasn't no other way of saying, 'My husband's come back, and he's going to live here, and that's just fine.'

I'd learned something last night, after being all worked up over what I was going to ask him. It began when I was listening to him talk. I don't know what it was about_ his_ voice, cause his son got his voice along of all the rest, but I started thinking I could really fancy him.

There isn't much I wouldn't do for my lad, and I never did want to end up all alone, with an empty bed of nights, and no one to send off in the mornings and welcome home of an evening, but I didn't know I was going to be looking forward to being his wife for my own self, and not just for the lad's sake. He kissed me, and though it started off as soft and innocent as any kiss my boy would give me, it became another sort of kiss right fast, and it was a good thing we was sitting, because I went all weak in the knees.

After he kissed me, it seemed just natural as I should kiss him again, to kiss him back, which I did, and if the first kiss was good, the second was better. My resolve to not give him anything more until we was married got tried somewhat.

I've wanted a lot of things in life. I wanted to be a cook, and a success at it. I wanted to be a mother. I wanted to be warm-hearted and generous and rich—if I could manage that last bit—but I never wanted to be pure. Even back when I still could have managed it, I never wanted that.

Of course, I never wanted all the mess what followed, neither.

Now if only he wouldn't never go looking down on me for being only a cook, and not having posh ways what come natural to me, like what he do, or for not being a better girl nor that I've been, maybe it would all come around right. Maybe…

But right now, I had profiteroles to fill, and after that, tea sandwiches to make. Madame Torval was having a tea party, and, her cook being notorious touchy, was having us cater it. Andrea, a waitress of ours, was going along to help serve, and so she was in the kitchen to have a look at what all was to be served.

"So if they ask for milk, do I pour it in before or after I pour the tea?" she asked, and slid her glasses up her nose again. "Some people say before, but as many say after, so does it really matter? Sometimes they get snobbish about it."

"Before is from the old days, when if you poured boiling hot tea into a cup, it might crack, so's you put in the cold milk first. But now china's tougher nor that, so it don't matter. I'd put it in after, so's they can tell you when there's enough. They won't snob at you, cause you're only the waitress. It's new acquaintances they'll judge."

"That's good to know…And if they want coffee, skip offering them lemon, but offer them cream instead." She looked at me to see if she'd got it.

"That's right. Cream's too rich for tea, but right for coffee. Some ladies might be on a reducing diet and want milk instead. Watch them—them's usually the ones what take two or three of everything, and then ask for coffee without sugar like they was being virtuous."

"I'll remember that!" she smiled.

"Madame Touchet?" It was Madame Hussenot, flushed pink from the walk over. "Might I see you for a moment, in private?"

I'd just finished filling the last of the profiteroles, so I put down my bag of pastry cream. "Happens as I can take a moment. Shall we go out into the garden? Minna, love, put these down in the cold machine, so's the filling don't melt." The look on Madame Hussenot's face told me something was up, and I'd just as soon nobody else heard.

Madame Hussenot and I went out into the morning. I looked over at the cottage, but I couldn't see no one. "What can I do for you, Madame?" I asked her.

"Madame Touchet—first let me say that I am not accusing you of anything—."

This didn't sound good.

"But, although your position here is important, you should still follow the rules regarding the conduct of female employees here at the inn, if only to set a good example for your girls. You were seen going into the cottage by yourself twice yesterday—once after dark, and you stayed there some considerable time. I know you were only speaking to M'sieu Makepeace, poor gentleman, who's too weak to sit up, but it still looks bad, especially since you didn't let anyone know where you were going." she finished.

"That it?" I asked, wanting to know if there was any more to follow.

"Yes."

""First off, thank you, Madame, cause we got to watch out for the young ones. We ought to live like what we want them to live, too. And you're right, I didn't let anyone know where I was going. But there weren't nothing improper in it at all."

"I never said there was!"

"Going to a man's lodging of a night _is_ improper, no two ways to look at it, but not this time. M'sieu Makepeace—this isn't easy to say—Erik!" I'd looked back at the kitchen house. My son was shimmying down the oak tree. He wasn't wearing his blue and white shirt. He wasn't wearing no shirt at all. He looked at me, jumped the rest of the way, and hit the ground running. "Where're you going? Excuse me, Madame." I lit off after him.

Once it was as I loved running, but that was before I turned fourteen, and my chest got to be too big for that game. All that bouncing hurts some. "Where are you going?"

He ran me around the whole inn yard! We went around the hen house, at such a speed that the hens'd probably quit laying for a week, with his little legs pumping and his arms flailing, no shirt on, and his hair flopping as he went. And him with no shirt on, his chest showing white as flour, and his sides heaving from breathing hard.

We went up the little slope past the stables, through the carriageway, past the main house and through the rose garden. I had longer legs, true, but his pumped quicker, and I was getting a stitch in my side, not to mention that parts of me up top, what is attached permanent-like, was acting like they wanted to jump off and go flying on their own. After that, we turned the corner by the orchard and wound up behind the kitchen house again.

I caught up to him by the spring house. "What are you playing at?"

"I know why you want me to put on a nice shirt, and I don't want none of it! We're going somewhere, or somebody's coming here, like yesterday, and you're going to want me to meet him. I don't want to meet nobody. I don't like people!" I'd got hold of his arm, and he pulled at me. I scooped him up and walked back to the garden with him.

"Come on, you! Dearheart, it's all right!" I made my voice all pleasant and soothing, or as much as I could, seeing as I was winded. "I knows that M'sieu Roget wasn't nice, but everybody isn't like what he is. You liked Father Anselm, didn't you? You got to think of your education."

"I don't want any education! I'd have to go away and leave here, and I don't want that! You don't got an education, no more does Ame or Claude or Sophie, and I want to stay along of you for always." He was clinging to me, hiding his face against my shoulder. Just like his Da.

"There, dear!" I ruffled his hair. Madame Hussenot followed us back to the kitchen house. "No one shall make you get an education if you don't want one. But you still got to put on your nice shirt, and meet the gentleman what's coming this morning."

"I don't want to meet him. I already know everybody I want to know…" he sniffed. We reached the back door, and went inside, Madame Hussenot following after.

Monsieur Hussenot was in the kitchen, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and along side of him, looking tall and skinny as any rail, was the other Erik Touchet. He looked like he wasn't sure whether to stay or cut and run, too, just like the boy. He had his mask on his face and his hat in his hands. I didn't need to see his face to know that; it was all in how he was standing. M'sieu Khan was behind him, and their manservant was off to the side, watching.

"It's too late now, dearheart. He's here." I brushed the hair back from his eyes.

Near everybody in the kitchen was looking at us with big round eyes like soup plates, almost. Amelié was cutting bread for the tea sandwiches every which way, Claude was kneading the dough like it was going to bite if he didn't tame it, and Andrea was gripping the sides of her chair for dear life.

"Madame Touchet—this gentleman—he says he is—" M'sieu Hussenot began.

"I know who he is." I told him, shifting my little lad about so he rested on my hip. "Welcome home, my heart."

" Anne—my darling. I said that I would, and here I am." He stepped forward, till he wasn't more nor three feet from us, and said to his son. "Can you guess who I am?"

He gave his father a look like he knew his Da was trying to put one over on him. "You're M'sieu Makepeace. I knows your voice."

"I was only pretending to be M'sieu Makepeace. I am—I'm your father."

The silence in my kitchen was so thick I could have used it to spread on bread.

"You're my Da?" my boy asked, in wonderment, his brow creasing up.

"Yes. I am."

"Really my Da?" he asked again.

"Yes." Then the older Erik did something as brave as I've ever seen. He glanced around at the room, and then, real slow and careful, not wanting to do it—every line of his body said he didn't want to it—he took off his mask, and held it down by his side.

There was gasps and "Ohh's" out of everybody, and then…

I didn't expect what come next. My son launched himself off of me like I was a springboard he was diving off of, right at his Da, who dropped his mask and put out both arms to catch him. He put both arms tight round his father's neck and held fast.

* * *

A Trio of Sandwiches for Afternoon Tea:

To make up for the recent chapters without any recipes, here are three simple ones together!

Recipe #1:

Cream Cheese, Celery and Walnut

4 ounces cream cheese, room temperature

½ cup chopped celery

¼ cup chopped walnuts

Wheat or white bread, sliced thin for sandwiches

Process the cream cheese, celery, and walnuts together in a food processor until smooth. Spread on the bread, and make sandwiches. Cut the crusts off, cut the sandwiches into four triangles, put them on a pretty serving plate, and refrigerate for at least an hour before serving. While refrigerating, cover the plate with a lightly damp paper towel, to prevent them from drying out, as they would if left uncovered, or from getting soggy from condensation, as they would if covered with saran wrap.

Recipe #2:

Tomato and Cheddar

1 cup grated extra-sharp cheddar cheese

½ cup diced fresh tomato—home grown if at all possible

Mayonnaise

Wheat or white bread, sliced thin for sandwiches.

Combine cheese, tomato, and enough mayonnaise to moisten thoroughly in a bowl. The amount of mayonnaise you will need will depend on how juicy the tomato is. The filling should hold together like a good tuna or egg salad. Spread on the bread, and make sandwiches. Cut the crusts off, cut the sandwiches into four triangles, put them on a pretty serving plate, and refrigerate for at least an hour before serving. While refrigerating, cover the plate with a lightly damp paper towel, to prevent them from drying out, as they would if left uncovered, or from getting soggy from condensation, as they would if covered with saran wrap.

Recipe # 3

Smoked Salmon

4 ounces thinly sliced smoked salmon

4 ounces cream cheese at room temperature

2 tablespoons chopped fresh dill

Wheat or white bread, sliced thin for sandwiches

Combine the dill and cream cheese together in a bowl, beating the dill well in. Spread on the bread. Separate the slices of smoked salmon, and place a single layer on the sandwich bottom. Make sandwiches. . Cut the crusts off, cut the sandwiches into four triangles, put them on a pretty serving plate, and refrigerate for at least an hour before serving. While refrigerating, cover the plate with a lightly damp paper towel, to prevent them from drying out, as they would if left uncovered, or from getting soggy from condensation, as they would if covered with saran wrap.

Afternoon tea is one of the nicest ways of entertaining. It should be held in the afternoon (of course) and the refreshments can include not only hot tea, but iced tea, coffee, hot chocolate and lemonade, depending on your preference and your season. Usually it begins with finger sandwiches, several different kinds. Then scones are served, with whipped cream, lemon curd and jam or preserves, and then the dessert, which can be one large item like a cake or tart for everyone to share, or can be a variety of delicate little pastries, cookies, and candies like chocolate covered strawberries. If the hostess does not want to pour the tea herself, and has no maid or waitress, she can ask a friend with a steady hand to pour for her, which is an honor, as it means she trusts you not to break her cups or spill tea all over the table, her guests and yourself.

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry this one took so long to get to you, but it was a trying week, between switching over to a new computer system at work and having to get a new printer for the office at home. It should not take two days to install a new piece of hardware! I've been very tired at night. But here it is. I hope you enjoy it. 

**Shout-outs!** **Awoman,** welcome back! You are absolutely right. There will be much more tension and drama to come, but first there will be a few chapters of 'honeymoon' so to speak, as Erik Sr. discovers what it is like to have a home life, (and while home life in the form of the inn discovers what it is like to have a resident Phantom, even if he's not actively haunting it!)

**Satoshi:** That's okay. I don't mind being thought daft, or having my fic thought it either. Thank you.

**An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin:** 400 reviews? 400 reviews! Thank you! What would you like as a reward?

**Polly Moopers**: Oh, I would never do that. Not to everybody. Not all at once, anyway…(big evil grin)

**Lucia:** Thank you! You can expect a proper answer tonight

**Sarahbelle:** It's too soon for a happy ending. Try and think of this as a happy middle. The drama will begin again in a few chapters.

**MetalMyersJason:** Yes, they will be married soon, once they get the good word from Father Anselm, which will be interesting for all concerned. And I do think Erik has found more than one reason to live. Thank you.

**Rozzandmaya**: Did you get my e-mail? 'Better than Byron, Coleridge and Wordsworth?' Oh, Joy!

**Thornwitch**: Thank you! Sometimes Nanny Ogg's phrases are just so apt, they come out. I do try to keep that under control. I'm not sure why there are so many passive, victimized heroines out there in fanfic, but I don't like them either. Why _are _there so many heroines like that anyway?

**Erik for President**: Did you like your personalized surprise in this chapter?

**Bella:** I agree completely. Sorry it's taking so long.

**Ayezur:** Thank you. It's very hard to get people to care about an original character, so your appreciation of Anne is a very great compliment.

**HDKingsbury:** I'm still waiting for you to turn up on R3—but you're still waiting for a proper e-mail. Maybe the two cancel each other out? Naah. I'll get caught up someday…

And (this was my most heavily reviewed chapter yet!) Thank you to **Sat-Isis, Sue Raven, Lindaleriel, Nelygirl, Phantom Raver, Patricia, Madlizzy, Nota Lone, Butterfly Guitar, and Pickledishkiller. If I missed you, I am sorry. **

Finally, if you like my work, I've started a new fic called Minion, about working for Doctor Doom (He's a disfigured genius in a mask who is even musically inclined, and I can e-mail you scans of him having an Erik moment.) Don't worry_--this_ fic will continue!


	32. The Guided Tour

"Really my Da?" he asked, and his brow crinkled. He leaned over from his seat on Anne's hip to look at me more closely.

He did not believe me, and there was only one way I could prove it beyond all doubt, not only to him, but to everyone else, including the dubious M'sieu Hussenot. It was a thing I hated to do, but I steeled myself, and removed the mask, in front of more people than had seen me at once since my days in Persia.

My son's reaction was as immediate as it was unexpected. He threw himself at me, and it was all that I could do to catch him before he hit the floor. He got a stranglehold around my neck, and then he gave me a big smacking kiss on the cheek.

As I struggled to get a better hold on him, he drew back and looked at me with such radiant joy and delight on his face—just because he was looking at me. He loved me immediately, without reservation…

I was on the verge of tears again. He was so solid, so real in my arms—for some reason, he had no shirt on, and his skin was damp and faintly sticky with sweat. "Da!" he said, happily.

"Yes." I answered. Anne's reaction to my face had hitherto (for all of twelve hours) been the best and most positive of my life, but his reaction put hers in the shade.

"You've come home to us?" he asked.

"Yes." I repeated.

"I think this is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life," said an unfamiliar voice. I looked over at a blond girl in a waitress' uniform, who was almost bouncing in her seat. She was smiling, but she, too, looked like she might cry.

I took a swift glance around the room. Never before in my life had I been the focus of so much good will. Everyone in the kitchen—absolutely everyone—was beaming at us, at me holding my son in my arms. It was headier than wine.

"Is you going to stay, Da? Please say you're going to stay."

"Yes, I'm going to stay," I said, after a glance at Anne. I had seen the expression on her face before, I knew it well. Artists had depicted such a look on the faces of angels given the task of bestowing good tidings on the world.

"He's staying, dearheart. I'm in hopes as you'll remember you made your Mam chase you down to make you come and meet your Da."

The word 'Da' alone made him smile even wider, and he tightened his grip on my neck. "You didn't say as it was going to be my Da!" he protested. "Put me down, put me down!" he commanded me. I did, reluctantly.

As soon as his feet were on the floor, he seized my hand and started tugging on it. "Come with me! You got to come see where we live! Come see my room! Come, Da, you got to see—!" He was surprisingly strong for such a small creature.

I looked to Anne again. "All in good time, love," she told him. "He ought to see the rest of the inn first, and then we come back around to home again. I can leave things here for a space—that is, is them sandwiches get made while I'm gone."

"I can help." offered the blonde girl.

"Thank you, Andrea." Anne said, and took off her apron. "Well, what are you waiting for? Do you think you can go walking round the inn with no shirt on? Go on, now!"

"Yes, Mam!" My son dropped my hand and dashed up the stairs.

Anne turned to me. "Did you tell M'sieu Hussenot?" she asked me, as I bent and retrieved my mask.

"Yes, I did." I said, as Madame Hussenot looked at her spouse and mouthed the words, 'Tell you what?' Anne had provided me with the deed to the inn last night, in case proof should be needed that I was not only her husband, but that I had every right to take up residence.

"Yes," echoed Monsieur Hussenot, "Would you like to me to accompany you, sir? Or would you prefer to spend the time with just your family?"

I liked how that sounded. "I think I would prefer it if my family were to show me around. No offense to you, of course."

"None taken." He spread his hands wide. Madame Hussenot looked as if she would burst with curiosity.

The boy came crashing down the stairs, wearing a blue and white shirt that was at least two sizes too big for him. "It still don't fit, Mam."

"It's nice and new, though, and it'll do. Let's go and show your Da around, now."

"Come on, Da!" He took my hand again, and we went out the door. As it closed behind us, I heard M'sieu Hussenot begin, "Berthe, my dear, it so happens that the inn's owner and our cook's hus—" I could guess the rest of the sentence.

"Madame?" I asked Anne, offering her my arm.

"Thank you." She smiled and slipped hers through mine. We stepped off the stoop and into the morning.

"This is our kitchen yard, of course." Anne began.

"Mam!" whispered the boy urgently. "Tell him—!"

"I will, love. Every morning, it's our lad what rakes the gravel so all's neat and tidy. Let's us go round the other side to the main house…"

It was very good to walk with them through the little rose garden, which was in the first flush of spring bloom, the boy's hand in mine, and Anne on my arm. I could have spent all day there, but Anne said, "We ought to be getting in out of the sun. I've come out without my hat, and if I stays in the sun, I get freckles on top of freckles."

"Is that bad?" I asked.

"Well—it isn't lady-like."

"But it is very Anne-like. Besides," I ventured. "they aren't freckles."

"No? What be they, then?" she asked, smiling up at me.

"Spice. Somebody sprinkled ground cinnamon all over your face."

She gave an enchanting gurgle of laughter; the boy looked up at us—at his parents—and he laughed, too, clapping his hands together with glee to see us so happy.

So we went indoors, which was equally pleasing. I had only seen the foyer when I had called on M'sieu Hussenot earlier, and now I got to see the rest. First came the big common dining room, with saffron painted walls and red and white checkered tablecloths.

Two waitresses were readying the room as we entered; they looked up as Anne was telling me, "We can seat upward of a hundred folk in here at once."

"Good morning, Madame." said one of the girls. Her fellow waitress repeated the greeting.

"Hallo, Daphne, Josette. This here is—."

Our son broke in. "He's my Da, see?" he said, with obvious pride. "He's come home to us."

"—M'sieu Touchet." Anne finished.

"Pleased to meet you, M'sieu." said the girl I thought was Daphne. She curtseyed.

"Likewise," I said.

"I'm very happy for you all." said the other.

"We're just showing him round the inn, so I'll say good morning to you, and see you nearer to lunch." Anne explained, as we went on.

"Why are you so quiet?" I asked my boy, as we went back out into the hall.

"I don't hardly never get to be in this part of the inn." he whispered back to me.

"That's cause our lad's job is to help me out around the kitchen. I couldn't do without him." said Anne.

Next came a formal dining room, with elegant ivory walls and deep red curtains. "This is our posh dining room," Anne indicated, with a sweeping gesture. "We can't fit but forty in here, without it being a terrible crush. The food here isn't no different nor what you get next door, except that I makes two fancier main courses, and we charges more, besides—What is it, love?"

The boy was tugging on her skirt. "Tell him how I helps you."

"Right—It's our lad what makes the menus look nice for the customers."

"I can see that you are a great help to your mother." I told him, and made him smile.

Passing along, we went through an assertively feminine tea parlor, with peony-pink walls and a great deal of blue and white porcelain. There was a correspondingly masculine smoking room, a sitting room for guests…It all blurred together for me, after a little while. It was not what I was seeing, but who I was seeing it with. That Anne's head came up a little above my shoulder—she was on the tall side—meant that I could smell the faint, elusive fragrance of vanilla and honeysuckle that clung to her, and the boy's little hand in mine, so trusting, so confidant… I would have been just as happy to view the inn's cesspit, if they were to lead me to it.

* * *

A/N: This was too long coming and too short, I know, but it was a dreadful week.

I have heard about the ban on answering reviews in chapters, thanks to the petition that is circling, so until I learn more, I am going to comply. Sorry about there being no shout-outs, but I don't want to be kicked off. I haven't seen any official notice about it on the site, so I have written ff net an email to ask what is going on. I hope they will answer soon.


	33. One Mystery Uncovered

**A/N:** To all of my wonderful, patient readers, **_thank you_** for waiting and wondering and encouraging me to go on with this story. I do not deserve you.

I've had a stressful time at work of late, changing to a new system, going to training sessions, and covering for people who were in training sessions. I hope things will be smoother soon.

Also, I didn't know why I was having such trouble going on until my writing buddy Maria, who my friends may know has been having stress of her own of late, pointed out that Anne, Erik and little Erik were so happy right now that I didn't want to do what I must do, which is to (at least temporarily) take that happiness away. She also told me I needed to get back to Christine, at least briefly. I do love Maria…

* * *

**Christine:**

Of course I was very much afraid at the time, when the man with the gun pointed it at my head and demanded all the jewels and money we had, but afterward, when I realized that the wretched necklace was gone, I felt such a blessed wave of relief wash over me. It was gone. My beloved Raoul need never find out what I did!

When I chose it from among all the others, Raoul was away in the Arctic. It wasn't the biggest of them, nor the most elaborate, nor the most valuable—just a simple diamond riviere necklace of graduated stones. I didn't know, I couldn't know it was the greatest of the de Chagny family treasures—that it had belonged to poor doomed Marie Antoinette, and that she had placed it around the neck of the then-Countess de Chagny, her favorite lady-in-waiting. It was a Royal relic, almost holy. The price of the piece was not what made it important; the history of it was the thing.

I didn't simply have it copied before I sold it, a stone here and a pair of stones there. I had it copied _twice_. I was clever—for once.

The first copy I had made was simply an adequate copy—ordinary paste gems, an obviously new setting. If you knew what to look for, you could see that it was not genuine. Lots and lots of people have their best jewels copied in paste, so they can wear them to the theatre—and the opera—and not have to worry.

But the second copy, that one was a work of genius! The stones were white topaz, not very valuable on their own, but so bright, so brilliant, that they could easily be taken for the real thing—and then I had the jeweler change the settings, so the diamonds were set in the new setting, and the topazes in the old, which showed signs of a century of wear.

So I had three riviere necklaces—one obvious fake, one undetectable copy, and one genuine article. I was so proud of myself! I wondered if that was how Erik felt, all the time.

I took apart the necklace of real diamonds, link by link, and I sold them. I sold them all over France, from Paris to the French-Swiss border, to twenty-eight different jewelers, and I raised a hundred and eighty thousand francs.

A hundred and eighty thousand! Surely that would be enough to set Anne up for life, to ensure that Erik's child would never lack for anything—least of all maternal love. And it was. I don't regret that part, I never will regret it. It was the right thing to do, as much as if an angel had whispered the plan in my ear.

When Raoul returned, and met Rosalie for the first time, it was so, so marvelous! We weren't simply a married couple, we were a family.

Then one night, he asked me why I never wore the diamond riviere—the one that had the white topazes in it, secretly. I told him I didn't care for it, that I didn't think it suited me.

He said that was nonsense, everything I wore was only enhanced by my beauty—such pretty things he used to say!

I said that if it pleased him, of course I would wear it, but there seemed to me to be much more valuable and nicer pieces in the de Chagny collection.

And then he told me that there was no more treasured piece in all the world, because it was the gift of the Queen—and my guilt was multiplied a thousand times over.

So when it was stolen, I privately rejoiced—until the police said they would comb the world to find it, and all the rest of the jewelry. There have been newspaper men and artists coming by at all hours, to get descriptions of the pieces, and to make drawings of them. Every single detail has appeared in the newspapers—the history, the value, accurate drawings.

They even say they will hire private detectives to search for it.

I hope they can't find it. I pray they don't find it.

Because I don't know what I shall do if it turns up. The insurance company will insist on having it examined and appraised—and when it turns out to be false—!

It will mean the end of everything for me.


	34. Morning Train to Lyons

A/N: This chapter picks up one week after the last chapters with Anne, Erik Sr., and little Erik. It was a very happy week.

**Erik:**

"I'm too happy, Daroga—so happy that I am mortally afraid. It's perilous, being so happy. How can it continue? God surely will not allow it."

On this, my second journey to Lyons, eight days after the first, I had invited Nadir along. I had been neglecting him of late, for I had been spending most of my waking hours with my family. I thought I had been conversing with him quite normally about various matters, but it seemed I had not, for my friend had said, good-humouredly, that I might as well talk about what I was thinking about, because my sentences tended to trail off without proper conclusions.

When I told him, he laughed and replied, "What is it you think will happen?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I'll return to find my son has been run down in the carriage-way and killed—or that Anne ate a bad mushroom and is dying of it. Something…"

"You're not afraid something will happen to you?" he asked.

"No. Not in the least, because then I wouldn't be able to suffer, it would all be over. I wish we could have brought the boy."

"He's too young to travel so far without his mother."

"I know, I know." When he realized I was going away on a train, he had thrown himself at my legs, wailing, "No, Da! Don't go! You got to stay along of us, you promised!" It was only with great difficulty that he had been persuaded to let go, so strong was his conviction that my departure meant I was leaving for years, not hours.

His distress was so wretched, so intense, that it actually evoked a physical ache in my chest, in sympathy.

"Last night, he was so tired out that he fell asleep on the settee, in all his clothes. I had to carry him to bed, and help Anne undress him and put his nightshirt on for him. He barely stirred, he was so deep asleep. He was as limp as a rag doll. I unlaced his shoe, and it was so small, it fit into the palm of my hand, Daroga—such a little shoe! I have large hands, but still, it was so small. I nearly burst into tears over it, that battered little brown shoe, with frayed laces! —and Anne!

"Two days ago, I came across her frowning over the wine merchant's listing, giving herself a headache. When I told her I could help, knowing wines as I do, she—it was like the sun coming out from behind clouds. We're going to be married in the church, in three days, and I'm terrified—terrified that something will happen, that something will go wrong…"

If there was a heaven, and it did not smell of good food being made, if there were no braided rugs on the floors with dogs that curl up on them, if the furniture was not a little shabby with use, so it didn't matter if it got a bit more so, if it was not identical in every way to the kitchen house, then I didn't want any of it. I knew what my heaven consisted of.

I now knew what it was the drugs were trying to counterfeit. Not the transports of physical ecstasy, but the tranquility of knowing that everything was all right—that I could sit at the table in the kitchen house, at meal times, and no one would start or stare—that afterward, I could spend the evening with my family, outside or in, with Amelié and Minna and old Sophie, if they chose, with Anne crocheting or resting while I gave my son a violin lesson, or read out loud to them, Truffle drooling gently on my shoe, and it would still be all right.

Anne's soft voice would not turn hard-edged, her hand would not lift to strike anyone, and, at the end of the evening, after we had put our son to bed, she would walk with me back to the guest cottage, my arm around her waist. She would lean against me, just a little, and I could feel the yielding weight of her breasts, smell her hair, and when I made to kiss her, she would turn her face up to me, and smile, before our lips met. Sometimes we kissed at every other step we took…When we were married, she would not turn back at the door, and leave me to go in alone. She would not be stiff and silent, I believed that.

Hour upon hour had passed as I lived that week—, and like an apprentice spinner who suddenly learns the knack that turns out a fine, long, strong, even thread, I, as amazed as I was, began to relax.

I began the day by going over for breakfast early in the morning, helping my son do the tasks his mother set him, and then playing with him, tossing a ball back and forth in the yard, with the dog running back and forth along with it, or throwing sticks for her to chase. We went into the fringes of the woods, where we made mud huts for the toads on the banks of the rivulet that flowed from under the springhouse—and deeper in, where, when I noticed him squirming and crossing his legs, I convinced him a water closet wasn't the only place he could relieve himself. His mother was raising him to be a little too civilized. I had to demonstrate, to show him the world wouldn't end.

Then it was back for our lunch, and in the afternoon, while the kitchen bustled, I worked—I wrote music, composed advertisements for my inquiry service—such was the title I gave to my new business— sent off another letter to Jules, and more. I fielded off the curious townsfolk, placed the order with the wine-merchant, and told the poulterer that his fowl were unacceptable.

On Anne's afternoons off, while the boy was having his first lessons with Father Anselm—a man verging on elderly, with one eye that was perpetually looking sharply inward at his nose, a disconcerting thing to behold—she and I went for walks—once in the countryside, to the lily-pond, and around the fields, and once in town, where we viewed the property she was thinking of turning into a second location. I wore my mask when we were outside, or in company, and left it off when we were alone together.

And nothing horrible happened. The townspeople stared, but they were respectful.

"Things are going too well, Nadir. I'm very frightened." I repeated to him, as the train sped onward, to Lyons.

"I don't know what I can do to help you, Erik." he said, half-exasperated, half-amused. "Not when you have no problems at all…"

* * *

**A/N:** Next chapter should get us back into some action. I hope it will come to me soon.

This chapter is dedicated to **Erik for President**, whose 16th birthday happened very recently. It was she who insisted that Erik Sr. should show little Erik it was okay to pee in the woods.

Hello, every one! I just lived through the yearly inventory at my workplace. It was another rough week, but I fervently hope the bumpy spots are behind me now. (Yeah, right!)

Hi to **Lucia**: You have to read very carefully. There are some important clues salted around.

**RozzandMaya**: Raoul had to fulfill the terms of his Naval service in the Arctic, and was consequently gone for a year… Minion has really taken off. I think you'll find it gets very interesting in later chapters.

**Josette**: Thank you!

**Sat-Isis:** Wait and see, wait and see!

Many, many thanks also to **Masqueradingthroughlife, Polly Moopers, Allegratree, HDKingsbury (will e-mail one of these days!) Lothloriel, Mad Lizzy, Sue Raven, awoman, Nota Lone and An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin!**


	35. Something Unexpected

Anne:

It wasn't even dawn yet, but I was up, having seen off my husband-to-be and his friend on the train to Lyons. Now I was trying to write a letter to the Countess. I'd meant to write it a week gone by, but with one thing and another, it hadn't got writ.

It wasn't such a grand week, truth be told. Madame Hussenot got on her uppers, cutting up all stiff and polite at me cause I turned out to be the owner of the inn. When I went to her to ask if she and Monsieur Hussenot would sponsor the two of us, meaning my lad's father and me, back into the church so's we could be married in a state of grace, it took some doing to get her to turn up sweet.

'_My lady,'_ I wrote. _'I hope you and yours is all as well as could be wished for. I don't know when you shall get this on account of you traveling abroad like what you is doing, so like as not we shall be married when you reads this, the day being set for three days from now.'_

"Mam?" My lad tugged at my sleeve, sending a little shower of ink drops over the table—but none on the letter, thank goodness. I wiped it up.

"Yes, love?"

"Da'll be back for dinner like he said, won't he?"

"Course he will. He won't want to miss his dinner."

It was a wonder I'd got that far with the letter before he broke in. Two whole sentences.

"So he'll come back?"

"Yes, dearheart. Hush now, your Mam's trying to write a letter."

"Oh."

'_My lad's father having found us, and some to-do being made, as you might think, we talked and come to an understanding.'_

If her husband came across this, as he might, I wasn't going to put in a word as could reveal a thing to him.

"Mam?"

"Yes, love?"

"Can I sit in your lap?"

"Not right now, love. I got to write this letter, and you've got too big to hold and write at the same time."

"Oh. Will you be done writing soon?"

"All the sooner if you'll be a good, quiet lad what stops interrupting."

"Oh. I'm sorry, Mam."

"That's all right, love. Hush, now."

'_We are to be married in church, and he shall live along of us, as my husband and his son's father. I am in hopes as all shall be well._'

Better nor the last week had been, anyways. All of Evrondes had been by the inn in the past week, hoping to catch a glimpse of my returned husband. And to have a few words with me over why we was only going to be church-married now.

Only seeing how happy my boy and his Da was with each other had got me through it. Although the older of my Eriks was turning out to be a dab hand at dealing with such troubles as the wine-merchant and the poulterer, who'd gone pale when that he was told, in a voice that froze blood, as his birds wasn't acceptable. I was grateful to him for it.

'_As you might guess, he has got a lot of questions, but I said as I couldn't give him many answers till that I wrote to you and the others what you knows of, not naming any names.'_

"Mam?"

"Yes, love?"

"Who're you writing to?"

Three sentences I'd got down this time. He was doing his best, but he wasn't real good at keeping quiet.

"To Rosalie's Mam."

"Rosalie! Tell her they got to come and stay along of us!"

"Now, dearheart, you know that isn't going to happen. Hush and let your Mam write."

'_So I am asking now that you should let me tell him. He's not angry with you nor with me, and matters is such between us that I doubt he'll get too mad when he finds out.'_

Matters in that respect was very good. When we kissed, it was as though my very bones should melt.

And he was so damn grateful, I was on the verge of tears half the time.

'He loves the lad right well already, and the boy has taken to his Da like a house afire.'

"Aunt Anne?" Ame was at the door.

"Yes, love?" Seemed as I'd said that a lot today.

"It's Sophie. She still hasn't sat up."

"Let her rest, if that's what she wants. I can fix her breakfast fresh if she's an appetite for it later." Sophie had been feeling poorly the day before, which was usual when the weather changed, and had kept to her room. I'd sent her meals in without another thought.

"But she don't look right, Aunt. And she don't act like she hears me even when I talk real loud." I looked at Amelié's worried face and went straight down to Sophie.

She didn't look at me when I went in, nor when I laid my hand on her brow, which was hot with fever, and clammy. I said "Sophie?" and she didn't open her eyes.

"Ame, you and Erik run over to the stables, and get Claude and one of the hands. Tell them one of them's to go for Doctor Chilperic, and—."

"And what?" Ame asked.

"The other's to go for Father Anselm."

I got Minna to make up a thin gruel with honey in it, which I could spoon into Sophie if I had to, and when she was out of the room, I peeled back the covers. As hot and sweated as she was, Sophie needed a bit of air. I uncovered one of her legs—and saw that from the knee down, it was swole up like a sausage, so's I couldn't tell joint from limb, all the way down to the toes. It wasn't a healthy color, neither. Then I saw the crusty bandage on her foot, and I knew this was all my fault.

It was the same bandage I'd put on over a week before, when she'd cut it clipping her nails. It hadn't been changed. Nor had I looked at it when she'd asked me to, the day my lad's father came in. I'd forgot all about it until that very moment, and she hadn't asked again.

I took off the bandage, careful as could be, and looked. The toe was red as a raspberry and hot to the touch, swollen, shiny, and foul-smelling. I pressed on the flesh, gentle-like, and the scab broke. Green pus burst out of the break. I caught up a clean cloth and wiped it away, pressed again, got more pus, wiped again. "Minna, fetch that bottle of Russian Vodka, would you?" That vodka would kill near anything as wasn't Russian.

When Amelié and Erik got back from the stables, I sent them out to weed. Then I called Ame back and sent her over for Madame Hussenot. I still had breakfast to make for the inn, and lunch. Work don't stop even when your heart's breaking. Madame Hussenot came, saw what was going on, and set about helping. Breakfast was going to be simple that morning, but it would be on the table.

The stable hand returned to say the doctor was out delivering a baby and no one knew when he might be back.

"Minna, fetch my sewing basket—and the best filleting knife we got." I knew enough doctoring to know the pus had to be drained. When the blood ran clean, I washed it all with vodka, and sewed it shut. I boiled the knife. A good knife is too good to waste.

It weren't no use. It was too little, too late, and maybe I hadn't done enough.

I got out her rosary, the one what belonged to her grandmother and had been blessed by one of the popes, she couldn't recollect which, and I put it in her hand.

Father Anselm came. I'd had the thought as putting ice from the refrigeration machine on her head to drive down the fever might do some good, and it did. It brought her round enough that she could listen to him for a while as he prayed over her.

Lunch had to be made. The waitresses came and helped too. Daphne and Andrea was all over the place, and others of them. For once in my life, I couldn't stomach my own cooking.

She died just before the clock struck four. Father Anselm said as all was right, and she died in a state of grace, with the last rites said over her.

My boy started howling, this being the first time as any body he knew had died, and that set off Truffle howling, and Ame started crying, and Minna rocked back and forth like she does when she gets real upset, but I—just couldn't. All I could do was sit down, with a heaviness in my heart like thick mud. A blackness was closing in on me, darker than night.

Father Anselm sat along of me, and asked, "My child?"

"It was my fault for not looking after that cut, Father. Now she's died of it. Please, sir, don't go telling me it was Our Lord what put it into my heart to forget, cause it was her time, cause I heard it afore and it isn't no comfort. It was my fault." My fault again…

He looked like he was about to say something, thought better of it, and closed it again. Then he said, "I know that you know the teaching of our faith. Think on that, and be comforted. Have masses said for her, pray for her—and instead of thinking her life was cut short, remember where she was and what her life was like before you took her in. Think instead that you lengthened her life by a year, two years, maybe three. Without the comforts you provided, and the knowledge that she was wanted, needed, and loved here, she might well have turned her face to the poorhouse wall and died in her first winter there."

It was then that I started to cry. "I said I'd look after her and see her buried proper when that time came. I never thought it'd be so soon!"

A/N: Shouting out! Thank you,** KLMeri**! I was going for a tone as close to Leroux as I could in that chapter. (I so love it when people notice!)

Hi, **Sarah Crawford**. Erik Sr. sounds like Anne? (The author thinks furiously.) Umm—couples do start to sound like one another when they grow closer? Unintentional on my part, I assure you.

Hello,** Rozzandmaya**! How did you like Corpse Bride? (You don't know what you're missing over in Minion. Joviana is doing for the superhero genre what your Christine did for POTO in Little Moments…

So many shout outs! Let me put a bunch of them together. Thank you to **Lucia, Phantom Raver, Allegratree, Erik for President, Polly Moopers, Nota Lone, MadLizzy, Pickledishkiller (long time no hear!) Sat-Isis, Lindaleriel, HDKingsbury (they found Richard and Anne's dispensation! Yay!) Alittlerayofsunshine, An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin, Masqueradingthroughlife, Bella, and last but never least, Josette and Awoman!**


	36. The Jeweler in Lyons

A/N: Sorry for yet another extended absence. This chapter finds Erik and Nadir in Lyons, at about the same time that Anne is discovering Sophie's illness.

* * *

**Erik:**

Nadir and I watched as the jeweler set Anne's diamond into its setting with the greatest of care. The workbench was stained and eaten by acids, battered by tools, until it looked a thousand years old. The jeweler looked at least a tenth of that age, similarly stained, eaten and battered by time and by life.

"Why not a ring?" Nadir asked. "Is that not the tradition here?"

"It is." I replied, "but it wouldn't answer in this case. Anne would never wear a diamond ring—not with all that she does with her hands. She'd be too afraid of something happening to it. This will please her much more, and she'll wear it almost every day, wait and see—once I've finished personalizing it."

"Ah." nodded Nadir. "The pieces of ivory you bought, and the paints."

"Yes." I said.

The jeweler held the piece up to his eye and squinted at it, polishing it with a soft cloth. "There you are, sir." He placed the bauble in my hand. "A fine piece of work, if I do say so myself. It looks like the veriest dew-drop there."

"Thank you. It's beautiful." I told the man. "Would it be simpler for me to pay you out of my pocket, or for you to subtract it from the proceeds of the sale?"

"Please—accept it as a gift from me." The man spread his hands. "I hope this is only the beginning of our relationship. Should you ever have other diamonds to dispose of, I would be honored to represent you once again."

"If I should ever come by any again, I will certainly bring them to you." I said. "Have you a box, or some such?"

"Of course." He selected a dove grey velvet box and nestled the piece into it. "I hope that your wife is pleased with it."

"I think she will be overcome." I smiled behind the mask. I was looking forward to presenting her with it on our wedding morning. "Thank you again."

"You're welcome, sir…" He seemed torn. "Sir, my friend's Bontriomphe's son Aristide says that you are setting yourself up as a private inquiry agent, and that you are a man with some experience in handling matters of the greatest secrecy and most delicate nature."

I wondered precisely what my lawyer had been saying of me. At our first meeting I had hinted to him that I was a government agent who had been away on a secret mission for the last four years. Stories only tend to get larger in the telling. On the other hand, my entire life had been a matter of the greatest secrecy and most delicate nature. "He is too kind. I am, although I am not actively seeking cases as yet. Why do you ask?"

"I would like to consult with you on something which I am reluctant to tell to even such an old friend as Bontriomphe. Can you step back into my office?" he asked.

"Certainly, if you wish." The man told his assistants to manage the store and not to disturb us, and let me behind the counter. He looked askance when Nadir made as if to follow us.

"Let me introduce you to the gentleman who will be handling the Parisian office of my business, Nadir Khan." I said, smoothly and inspiredly. "He is privy to all aspects of my business."

What a good idea! Now that I was recovered and so thoroughly absorbed in my family, Nadir had been making noises about returning to his rooms on the Rue de Rivoli. If he were to take an office, he could vet the potential clients there and refer the live ones, so to speak, on to me—and to Jules. He would have an active role in all that was going on—his income, which I knew to be limited, would be augmented by his finder's fee, and—thinking of the image which I wished to present to the world—a mysterious masked private inquiry agent, who only took the cases he found of interest, and charged through the nose (so to speak) that image could only be boosted by a dark-skinned, exotic front man.

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance, sir." The jeweler showed us into his office, which had a massive safe in one corner, and a cluttered desk in the other. A newspaper and a magazine lay on top of the piles. The newspaper was folded carefully to a certain page.

"Please, have a seat." He waved at two seats, which we took. He did not sit, but clasped his hands in front of him.

"Thank you." I commented. I was only mildly interested in his problem.

"I do not know if you have been following this case, sirs—." He handed me the paper. It was another account of the robbery of the Count and Countess de Chagny. This one had an engraving of Christine printed in it—an old one, from when she was still at the Opera.

"As it happens, I have." I said. This man's little problem no longer seemed so little, and I was abruptly much more interested in it.

"As a jeweler, I have been sent a special edition of our trade journal, detailing every single piece of jewelry that was stolen. Some of the stones were very valuable, and in those cases, there are records of every facet, inclusion and flaw. The jeweler who assesses it makes a sketch of it. Each stone is unique—there will not be two stones with the exact same measurements—not even if they appear to match exactly."

"I believe I understand." I said. "Have you come across one or more of these stones, M'sieu?"

"Yes. But not recently. Some years ago, a young woman—an exquisitely beautiful young woman, who was, um, in a certain condition—," his hands described a convex arc in front of his own belly. "came to me with a diamond that she wished to sell.

"It was a very fine stone, of the first water, and almost five carats in weight. Seeing her, as she was, I thought I knew the whole story—a discarded mistress, increasing daily, who was selling her lover's gift out of need. I gave her a fair price." He said the last with some defiance.

"As it was such a good stone, I made an assessment of it. I made two copies of it, one for the buyer, and one for my own records. That way, if there was ever any question about the stone, I could refer to it. The stone I bought of that young woman was one of the stones from the De Chagny Marie Antoinette necklace—and the reason why I bothered to check my files was that the young woman was the Countess herself! I knew her directly I saw her picture in the paper. So you can see that I don't know what to do—I am afraid to go to the police, for fear of being accused of accepting stolen goods. Who would believe my story? The stone was sold to a client of mine three years ago, a man who bought it in good faith. I don't want to drag him into it—the more so as the stone was not a gift to his wife or even his daughter."

"I see…" I said slowly. A mystery was now cleared up for me. I knew where the money to set Anne and my son up had come from. Oh, my poor Christine! What had it cost her to steal from her husband to cover up her sin? "I would advise you to say nothing for the moment. More may be going on than you can guess at. A necklace so valuable would be insured. Suppose it was sold off, piece by piece, stone by stone, for ready money, with the Count's collusion, and when they were robbed, they saw the opportunity to collect the insurance money, and reported it gone with the rest?"

"Yes, yes!" cried the jeweler. "And it would be my word against hers…But then I recalled the affair of the Queen's necklace, when they duped the man with a look-alike? Perhaps the Countess has a double? It might have been a theft after all, only they did not know it. I am perplexed, and I confess it."

He was referring to a famous crime concerning the same queen who was associated with the De Chagny necklace—Marie Antoinette. A lady-in-waiting had found a prostitute who looked amazingly like the queen, and together they hatched a scheme to gain a fabulous diamond necklace, by convincing a particular man the Queen desired him to buy it for her, and would repay him for it.

"I will relieve your perplexity." I told him. "I will investigate this for you—at no charge, just as you charged me nothing."

The jeweler started in surprise. "I—all I really wanted was advice. You don't have to do this."

"I want to. It will be good for me to get my hand in, so to speak. A test run. Can you spare this journal and this newspaper? It will get me started."

"Of course! Can you tell me what happens?"

"If I can." I promised. "Good day, sir. Nadir!"

The Daroga and I went out into the bright afternoon.

"Say nothing to me at present." I was curt with him. "I knew that life was getting to be entirely too serene. I was anticipating—what, I knew not, but this is it. This is certainly and definitely _it_. But I refuse to let it ruin my day. Now that I have funds, I have some more shopping to do."

He knew me well enough not to say anything when I was in that mood…

* * *

A/N: Thank you all so much for being so patient with me. I hope you're still reading.


	37. Anne, mourning

Anne:

Once I'd got everything in the oven or on the stove, I went out on the back stoop and had a sit with my workbasket. Heart-sick and bone-weary as I was over Sophie, there was still an inn full of guests and folks what had reservations for dinner, and I had to feed them. There wasn't no way around that. So it would be simpler food as was served up to them, but it would be good food and not the worst I'd ever made, even if it weren't the best.

I did no more toward putting on mourning than to put on a black shawl. I knows what's right, but I also knows that black's a tricksy color when that it comes time to wash it. I don't have no one working in my kitchen wearing clothes what can't be washed—or boiled. Not since I read about them germs what Monsieur Pasteur found as makes folks sick. I was sewing up black armbands for my son's shirts when his Da come running up, panting like Truffle on a hot day.

He saw me, and staggered over. "You all right?" I asked. "I got smelling salts here, if you're the need for them."

"What happened?" he asked. "What happened to him?"

"The lad? I gave him a bit of laudanum, just so's he'd sleep and not go crying himself sick."

"And that killed him?" he asked.

"What? He isn't dead. He's up in his bed. When his heart's broken and he starts in to cry, he'll cry till he's throwing up and fevered with it. So I gave him a drop of laudanum, that's all. He'll sleep through till morning, and when he wakes, he'll be a bit fogged. No worse nor that. He'll bear it better for the rest. Come on in, I'll show you." I stood up.

"He is not dead—and you are not—but the doctor said, when I got off the train, that he was sorry for my loss. Who have I lost, if not you or him?" he asked.

"Sophie. Come on--."

He picked up the workbasket up for me. "Thanks—I've been making him some armbands. I don't know as you needs them—you wears black all the time anyway."

I led him up the stairs to our boy's room, where young Erik was a lump under the covers. He had to check for himself that the lad was all right. "How much did you give him?"

"Four drops in a glass of water."

"He's breathing normally and his heart is beating as it should," his Da fretted. 'Yet—because I have struggled with opiate use, extra caution should be taken when giving him such drugs. You ought not to have given it to him."

"That's what you say," I said, and my voice sounded strange in my own ears. "You come home, Sophie's lying out downstairs waiting for the hearse, and you start in on telling me I shouldn't give him something what'll help him through this? You don't go asking how I am, or how nor why Sophie died, or nothing? I –I—." There I broke down in tears again.

"I'm sorry!" he cried out. "Anne—I'm sorry! I was so afraid it was going to be you, or else him, who was dead, I was sure of it." He reached out a hand to me, and I wound up flinging myself into his arms, and crying into his shoulder.

TBC….

A/N: Sorry. The muse of this fic has been sleeping. I thought you might like a short bit now, to tide you over. I think she has been shaken awake though—thanks to my friend Maria!


	38. Sophie's legacy

A/N: I cannot ignore the pleading any longer. I had to update. Forgive my long absence--I have had major Real Life Issues.

Now hold onto your hats. This chapter is going to be a shocker.

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Erik:

I held Anne for a while, awkwardly patting her shoulder while she cried. I wasn't sure what to do, other than that. Also, holding her was…problematic. While I knew all I was doing at that moment was comforting her, my body didn't understand that. As far as it was concerned, I was holding an extremely attractive woman very, very close. Anne was bound to notice my discomfort sooner or later, so I suggested we move to the settee in the next room. She nodded and gulped.

She began to sit, but popped back up again, pulling a parcel of something that jangled from her pocket. "Praise God, I haven't bent them!"

"What are they?" I asked.

"What Sophie left us—me and the lad. There wasn't much she had as I didn't provide her, but she told Father Anselm she wanted us to have these."

She handed me a set of silver teaspoons, half a dozen of them, bound together with a ribbon, and a wooden rosary worn dark and smooth by many years of devoted prayer. "She was the one as taught him his first prayers, see? She said as it was her grandmother's, and it was blessed by the Pope. She couldn't remember which one."

"As poor as she was, she still kept these little treasures." I fanned the spoons apart. They were at least a century old, and they were quite beautiful—heart-shaped bowls with delicate fluting, and slender, graceful handles. The interiors of the bowls still held the remnants of gilding. "These would have bought her a few hot meals."

"It was all she had left, after her son ran out on her. She had to sell off everything else." Anne wiped at her face with her apron.

"I didn't know she had a son." I said, absently.

"It was more nor twenty years ago when he run off. She never spoke of him—what I know, I had to find out from Father Anselm and others what remembered. He isn't dead. He's just a selfish bugger, is all." She started crying again.

"Oh—now look, Anne. You had something—tomato seeds, I think—on your apron, and now they're all over your face." That made her chuckle, even while she cried.

"Let me get a wet washcloth." I went to the water closet and dampened a cloth. On my way back to Anne, I picked up a stray piece of paper that was lying around on the floor, and set it on the worktable. "Here you are." I wiped her face, which crumpled up even as I brushed the blob of seeds away.

"It was my fault." she sobbed. "She wouldn't be lying dead if I hadn't been neglectful of her."

"Neglectful? You did everything you could for her comfort and happiness—getting her cushions and cups of tea, listening to her—. How did you neglect her?" I asked.

She told me. Sophie had cut her toe, and it had turned septic and killed her. Anne had never checked to see how the cut was healing, so she blamed herself. "Anne—I know you're grieving, and you should grieve. Sophie was very dear to you. But her death was not your fault."

"But--." She was on the verge of tears again.

"It wasn't. You didn't remember to look at her foot when she asked, it's true. However, she could have asked again. You might as well say her death was her fault." That wasn't wise of me; she began sobbing again. "Anne—you're only making yourself feel worse, and for no real reason. You're not responsible for everything—and you can't control everything, either. No matter how hard you try."

I wasn't very good at this comforting business. She dissolved completely. What was I supposed to do about it? I had done everything I knew how. I looked down at the paper I had picked up, and read:

'_My lady, _

_I hope you and yours is all as well as could be wished for. I don't know when you shall get this on account of you traveling abroad like what you is doing, so like as not we shall be married when you reads this, the day being set for three days from now. My lad's father having found us, and some to-do being made, as you might think, we talked and come to an understanding.'_

I smiled, a bit ruefully. Anne was writing to Christine. There was a bittersweet tinge to my thoughts of Christine these days, as of a bowl of dried flowers, holding only a hint of the perfume of summer, laid over with the mustiness of time. I had loved Christine because she was beautiful and because she had a beautiful voice; I loved Anne because she had a generous heart. I could tell now, as I could not before, which love would be the deeper, even if it were quieter.

_'As you might guess, he has got a lot of questions, but I said as I couldn't give him many answers till that I wrote to you and the others what you knows of, not naming any names. So I am asking now that you should let me tell him. He's not angry with you nor with me, and matters is such between us that I doubt he'll get too mad when he finds out. He loves the lad right well already, and the boy has taken to his Da like a house afire.'_

That was where the letter ended. She was correct about the last part, but my eyes kept traveling to the sentence above. '_I doubt he'll get too mad when he finds out_.' I had guessed already, and let Anne know as much. What more was there for me to find out?

I went over to close the door to our son's room, and the light fell across his sleeping face—and then I saw what I had not let myself see before.

He had freckles.

Just like Anne's.

Christine's skin was as even in color as a bowl of milk. It was as unmarked in the height of summer as in the dead of winter. She grew a little tanned in the summer, perhaps a bit pink if she stayed out too long, but she never, never freckled. I didn't have freckles. They had to have come from _somewhere_…

Now that I saw his freckles—which I had been looking at all along—I could not stop seeing other traces in him, not only of Anne, but hints of Amelié and Claude. His sturdy frame was more like Claude, the shape of his ears like Amelié.

Anne was his mother—which meant that Anne had been the one I embraced, in that room, in the absolute darkness of that bed…

I turned around, to look at her. Impossible. Anne was built so differently from Christine, surely I would have noticed…

…but she had been only sixteen then. I winced. So young. She would still have been growing, and she hadn't had a baby then. She would have been slimmer, shorter, her bosom not so full.

But Anne was passionate, and Christine—or the girl I thought was Christine—had been so still and stiff—and absolutely silent. Silent. Yes. And given the circumstances, who would not have been unresponsive? In bed with a stranger, and he was a murderer as well.

It wasn't as if I would know the difference between a virgin and…well, a non-virgin.

If Anne had been hiding there, naked under a dressing gown, then when the candle went out…

"It was you." I said. My face felt prickly and cold, more like a mask than the mask itself.

"It was you all along."


End file.
